This too, too sullied flesh
by KB49
Summary: Neal stumbles onto a lead for a case that threatens to crack the facade he's so carefully cultivated.
1. Chapter 1

"Show time, kid," Peter grinned as he slapped Neal on the back. "Go out there and make us proud."

Neal's face was patient disdain in the dim light of the surveillance van. "We're better than this. I mean, really, Peter, with our expertise, a little copyright infringement isn't even a challenge."

"Good, then it shouldn't take you long to make the deal."

Neal hesitated, considering a witty retort, then saw the look on Peter's face and just shrugged and flashed his brilliant smile. "Ours is not to reason why..."

"Yeah, just... go, already, would ya?"

After Neal had closed the van door behind him, Agent Burke turned back to his team. "You'd think he'd at least quote Speilberg instead of Tennyson."

"Actually, sir, I think that was in a Speilberg movie, too," said the tech monitoring the equipment. All heads turned to stare. Peter sighed.

...

Neal glanced around the grubby workshop as the equally grubby-looking little man in front of him led the way. "Yah, I gaht whaht you need raht back heah," he intoned in a voice that seemed too big for him. He stopped to cough, and Neal noticed that despite the dark smudges of grease-stains the man sported on his worn clothes and pale arms, his hands were immaculate and held no dirt under the closely cropped nails that tipped surprisingly delicate fingers. "Ah was on anothah prahject when yah came. Kindah lahst track ah tha time."

"Oh, that's fine, Mr., uh..." Neal replied in as gracious a tone he could muster while attempting to maneuver past machinery and tables of grimy spare parts that he just knew would ruin any piece of clothing that got within a half inch of it.

"Yah, just cahl me Bahbby."

"Bobby."

"Yah, like the pins, yah know?" Bobby grinned back at Neal. "I ahlways did like how yah could use thahse pins tah get outtah any trouble in thah movies."

"Right."

"Neal... that's what we call an opening..." Peter said with mock patience through the earpiece.

"Right, yeah, so..." Neal crept past another suit-endangering obstacle, "Is that how you got into pirating, then? Really like movies?" It sounded lame to his own ears and he swore he could hear the crew in the van groaning, but at least he was near the end of the trek. Bobby waited for him at a large metal sliding door on the side of the workshop.

"Yah, well, free movies and free money, who'd say no to thaht, ah?"

Bobby opened the door and led Neal inside a closet of a room with another sliding metal door closed in front of them. Neal was slightly alarmed when Bobby slid the door behind them shut, latched it, flicked a switch, and reached up to a large red button. Bobby just grinned at Neal and said, "We'll see how yah fahncy gels stahnd up to this!" before firmly pressing it.

They were suddenly standing in the center of a massive windstorm, and Neal could feel his tie flapping madly about. He had the sudden urge to protect his head from flying debris, but as quickly as it began, the storm had passed. Neal looked at Bobby in askance, and saw his mark's mouth go ear-to-ear with glee.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Neal huffed with as much dignity as he could muster while pulling his hair into some semblance of order and firmly repositioning his tie.

"Keeps tha wuhst of tha dirt out. Ahnd it's tha best paht of my day when I get tah see some tough guy or pretty boy get tha wind knahcked outta him." He chuckled and turned from Neal to punch a code into a keypad, unlock a deadbolt with a key, and push a lever near the floor with his foot. Then he flicked the switch back off, unlatched the door, and opened it, revealing a large and scrupulously clean room with several tidy tables lined with computer equipment.

Neal stopped, all reluctance about the case's import blown from his mind. "This is much bigger than I expected. What kind of operation do you have going here, Bobby? I mean, this..." he smiled widely as he gestured, "this is amazing. Much more than just pirating, am I right?"

Bobby nodded gladly at the compliment as Neal stepped further into the room, calculating the possible criminal uses of what he saw. "Oh, this isn't even tha best of it. I do ah lahtta outsource work thaht isn't exahctly above boahd. Yah might not even believe me if I told yah some ah tha people I've worked for. Ahnd I have a propah clean room undahground. Fah the more sensitive equipment, yah know."

Neal caught Bobby's eyes in his own. "Really? Tell me about it! I mean you..." he shook his finger teasingly, "...you must be in great demand. What kind of services do you offer?"

Bobby was pleased. Very pleased. Neal listened carefully to what Bobby didn't even realize was a confession of multiple federal crimes, stepping around a table to lay down his briefcase. He glanced down to make sure he didn't crush some vital piece of equipment—or evidence—with the polished leather bag. And froze. Neal's blood ran cold. His heart skipped a beat. He drew in a breath of shock and horror. His eyes were transfixed on the monitor until after a long moment he forced them away and looked at Bobby.

"Is this real? I mean, is this just a movie?" Neal interrupted Bobby's proud soliloquy.

"Oh, that. That's whaht I was working ahn when you showed up. Nah, it's DVD of a live stream frahm ah remote location. Actually, I worked it out so theah's fouah camerahs, ah cahdiograhm, ahnd encephelograhms pehfectly synced. In reahl time. Heah."

Bobby reached over and clicked some icons on the screen, switching between multiple camera views and spiking lines on black backgrounds. "See? Not a bad bit ah work, really. Not easy to make shuah everything's lined up ahl propah."

"Neal?" Peter's voice was in his ear again. "Just do the deal. We've got enough to turn this guy on a dozen other criminals and still put him away for a long time. Now seal it."

"Yeah," Neal responded to both men, "just a minute."

"Where is this being filmed?" he asked Bobby.

"Oh, I don't know about thaht. Don't wanna know, reahlly. Might complicate things."

"Do you even know who the client is?"

"Neal, what are you doing?" Peter worried aloud as Bobby considered Neal, deciding how much to reveal.

Neal steeled himself against the nausea that had risen from his gut and graced Bobby (and, in his mind, Peter) with his most brilliant and reassuring smile and said, "Trust me."

...


	2. Chapter 2

Burke, Caffrey, Barrigan, and Jones sat in silence in the darkened conference room. The DVD had been more horrific than even Neal's sickly pallor and somberly stoic demeanor had warned of. With the sound on it had been unbearable. The sight of the bloodied and naked woman had turned their stomachs, but the hoarse cry that escaped her battered form when her captor poured what appeared to be alcohol on her wounds... none of them could find the words for the way it seemed to tear at sanity itself.

Burke signaled to Jones, who rose and flipped the lights back on. Barrigan was the first to speak.

"It's not ours," she said. "Violent crimes, human trafficking, maybe even missing persons... but THIS," she looked up from the table to Peter, "is definitely not white collar."

Peter shifted in his seat, looking at this core of his team. "Agreed," he finally stated. "But I don't want to let this go entirely. It's still attached to our bust, our informant, our witness. We'll let another division take the lead, but after seeing that..."

His meaning was clear. This was the kind of thing you either ran from as fast as you could or saw through to the end. And these agents were not in the habit of running from much of anything.

"Right. So. We'll do what we can from our end. Diana, look into this 'Bobby's' financials, see just who he connects to. Jones, go over the evidence from the scene. Figure out what goes with which 'client.' We'll help where we can with the other stuff, but victim identity and the rest is probably gonna be out of our domain."

The agents rose, and Barrigan and Jones walked out, files in hand. Peter shut the door after them, sat back down, and looked at Neal, waiting.

"You okay?" At Peter's words, Neal looked up. "It's okay if you're not, you know. This probably isn't the kind of thing you're used to. Hell, I don't think it's the kind of thing anyone is used to." Neal remained silent, turning something over in his mind as he looked at the man who might be his friend, might be his keeper.

Peter was getting a little unnerved by the utter stillness with which Neal held himself. Getting unnerved made him cranky. He fought it, deciding to address the issue professionally. It was frustrating how well Caffrey could hide himself when he chose.

"That was a good job, by the way," Peter continued. "With everything you got 'Bobby' to say, all the physical evidence we're collecting, we can probably close a lot of cases. Put a lot of bad guys behind bars." Neal looked away, swallowing the words that had been so close to the surface. And Peter felt the snap of the broken connection. But he wasn't letting this go.

"Goddammit, Neal, talk to me. What's going on in that busy genius brain of yours?"

Neal gave a short, grim laugh. "Wow. Worried enough to risk inflating my ego, huh?"

"Hey, I said it was busy, not that it was up to any good," Peter retorted, relaxing slightly now that the silence was broken.

Neal leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His next words held something between curiosity and contempt. "I don't see you checking up on the mental health status of anyone else."

Ah. Good. So there it was. Peter nodded and leaned forward, closing the distance he had noticed Caffrey adding between them. "Well, KIDDO," Peter emphasized, with a very small and slightly sad smile, "They're trained agents. They chose this. They're supposed to know how to deal with the blood and... nasty stuff."

Neal mirrored Peter's expression. "I've seen some 'nasty stuff', too, you know."

Peter's mouth twitched a little. "No, actually, I don't," he replied. "There's a lot you haven't told me. And that's okay. But I need you to trust me. Or at least trust me more than you seem to right now."

The sting Neal felt at that remark flickered through his eyes so quickly anyone but Peter might have missed it. Caffrey hesitated, tapping the table softly with the eraser end of a pencil, not sure how to proceed. He wasn't used to being at a loss for words. Peter decided to ease him into it.

"So what did you notice about the video?" he asked.

"Besides the blood?" Neal retorted, looking at Peter with eyes a little too wide.

"Besides the blood." Peter affirmed, leaning back in his chair to give Neal some space.

It was Neal who leaned forward now, looking thoughtfully into the polished grain of the table for a moment before he returned Peter's gaze, ready to let his quick mind put some intellectual distance between himself and his emotions. "She's lost hope," he said sadly, analyzing the images in his mind. "She's not struggling, not trying to get away. When she screamed..." he trailed off at the unearthly sound echoing in his head. "She wasn't trying to alert anyone to her presence or mitigate the... what they were doing. It was purely a reaction to pain. She's not expecting to be found and she's not expecting to be let go."

Neal stopped to draw in a deep breath and observe the ceiling tiles more closely. He knew that feeling. Trapped and without anyone to even imagine coming to the rescue. When he next caught Peter's eyes in his, there was a touch of something like desperation in his quiet voice as he continued, "Peter, no one's looking for her. Either she's never been declared missing or she was taken so long ago that the file's been put on a back shelf somewhere."

Burke rose and Neal followed suit.

"I know, buddy," Peter said softly, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "But now WE'RE looking. And we'll find her. There are at least three units working on this now. I don't think anyone who sees those DVDs is gonna get any sleep until we find our mystery woman and catch the bastards behind this. She may not know she has hope, but she does." He clapped Neal's back a few times and headed for the door. "So let's go see what else 'Bahbby' has to say about his client list. I promise you, we'll find her. Hey," he smiled, "I found you, right?"

Neal returned the smile as he tipped the fedora onto his head at an appropriately cocky angle. "Yeah, you did," he sighed. Then, in a lower voice he hoped Peter wouldn't hear, he added, "I just hope it doesn't take three years, this time."

...


	3. Chapter 3

"So when are you playing White Knight?" Mozzie called over his rapidly emptying glass of Neal's wine.

"Am I talking backward?" Caffrey shut the door to his rooms behind him and put his hat on the rack before standing before his friend with a mischievous grin.

"Ugh! Yet another example of popular culture spoiling a classic! Carroll should sue. If he weren't dead."

"Yeah, I think the ship's sailed on that one, Moz." He removed his jacket and went into the bedroom to put it away.

"Don't change the subject!" Moz yelled after him. "You...," he lowered his voice again as Neal reappeared, walked to the counter and emptied the bottle into a fresh glass. "You know what I'm referring to. This case you're on that you're not really on. Or whatever."

Neal replied with his best mock-accusatory glare, "Did you drink all of this? I was looking forward to it. I read it was one of the best new Argentinean vintners—I'm gonna have to start charging you by the glass, you know."

"It's alright. A little fruitier than I expected. And you're doing it again."

"Doing what?" Neal leaned back casually against the counter and sipped at the wine. "It is fruity, isn't it? I think I like it."

"Deflecting. Redirecting. Avoiding the issue. You can talk to me, you know."

Neal rolled his eyes and made his way to the chair across from his friend. "Jeez, Moz, you're starting to sound like Peter."

"Yeah, well, for a Suit he's not that bad. For a Suit," he emphasized with a stern finger. "So what's happening?"

"We're making the drop tomorrow. We follow the package and hope it leads us to something."

"You hope. How long ago did you get the case?"

"Three days."

Mozzie shook his head and with thorough disapproval said, "I don't like it. Why so fast?"

Neal stifled the choking sensation that emerged as a cough. "Fast? That's three more days of torture! I...," he downed the rest of his drink, laid the glass on the table between them, and took a steadying breath. He stared at the wall past Mozzie as he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Then he settled back in the chair and put his head in one hand, thumb along the jaw and fingers massaging the scalp at his hairline. Mozzie watched him silently, not pushing. Just waiting.

Finally Neal rolled his gaze to the ceiling, brushed his knuckles against his face, and met Mozzie's eyes. "The video feed is still running, you know." He said it quietly and without emotion. Moz just nodded. "It's a live feed, so we know everything that's happening. As it happens. Everything. But we still don't know where."

"Don't they have techs for that? Computer genius types?" Moz said as nonchalantly as he could manage. He didn't want Neal to shut down on him. Not yet.

"Yeah. They're not telling me too much about it, but I get the impression it's a lot more complicated than normal."

"Great," Mozzie snorted, "Smart psychopaths. Just what the world needed. Why can't the violent ones be stupid?"

"It's worse than that, Moz," Neal said with a hard edge to his voice that made Mozzie put his glass down and observe his friend carefully with worried eyes. "They're being very methodical. Like they're... checking it off a... a list. There's no anger, no pleasure. No emotion. They're not asking questions or making statements. It's like they're dissecting a bug. Just to see what happens."

He felt like responding. He wanted to pull Neal back from this oncoming train of thought and encourage him at the same time. But Mozzie remained silent and let Neal decide how far he was willing to go.

When Neal finally continued it was soft enough to be a whisper, and his words held a hint of memory to them. "Like she's not even human. Like she's not real." His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and Mozzie knew the moment was about to end. Neal couldn't go any further tonight. Not in safety.

So Mozzie rose from his seat and laid his hand on Neal's back without looking at him. "I'll open another bottle. I found a beautiful translation of Dante by an Irish poet I want you to see."

Neal blinked his eyes dry and smiled gratefully as his friend moved off to examine the wine rack. "Inferno, Purgatorio, or Paradiso?"

...


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as Peter stepped off the elevator into the White Collar Division's offices, Neal was out of his chair. Peter was expecting him, and put his palm out to motion Caffrey back.

"Neal, hold on a moment. We'll talk in my office. Just wait for me there, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

Caffrey watched Peter for a moment, trying to divine the nature of the news Burke had brought back, then turned and walked up the short flight to the glassed-in office and sat down to think and wait. Peter came in a few minutes later, closed the door, and let out a long exhalation as he sat at the desk, shifting his tie into place.

"Still no I.D., then?" The way Neal said it made it more a statement than a question.

Peter met Neal's eyes and shook his head. "No. She's still Jane Doe. But," he smiled "The computer guys came through. We may not know who she is, but we have a pretty good idea of where she is."

Neal suddenly seemed to buzz with an energy that Peter realized he hadn't known was being suppressed. "They back-traced the signal?" Neal asked.

"Something like that. Don't ask me to put the specifics into that tech-speak they do. We have to move on it today. If anything goes wrong with the DVD drop, they might move her."

"Or kill her."

Peter was disturbed by the matter-of-fact tone of Caffrey's voice. But he was right. "Or kill her," he agreed. "We have one shot to save the damsel and slay the dragon, so we're moving on both simultaneously."

"Sounds risky," Neal commented, raising his brows.

"It is."

"And complicated."

"You have no idea."

"So who are we in this fairy tale? Damsel-savers or dragon-slayers?"

"I signed us up for damsel-saving duty," Peter replied. "But there might be dragons there, too, so I want you to keep back." He paused, suddenly getting more serious. "If you want to go. Even if we're successful, it's not gonna be pretty."

Neal nodded. "I know."

"And we might not be successful. Not every fairy story has a happy ending, you know."

One corner of Neal's mouth quirked up, "Good thing this isn't a fairy story, then."

"I don't know," Peter sighed, "I could do with a fairy godmother once in a while." He stopped and frowned. " Christ, that sounded weird."

"A little bit," teased Neal. He paused. "I'm a little surprised you're letting me do this."

"Aw, honey, it's nice to know I can still surprise you after all these years," Peter grinned.

But Neal was uncharacteristically serious.

"If I told you to stay away from this case, would you?" Burke asked with a knowing smile.

"No." Neal's answer was immediate, sincere, and without humour. Peter flinched internally. The detective in him wanted to dig deeper into these unexpected reactions, while something paternal told him to protect the young man who still seemed to have so much of the child in him. He wondered again if he should tell Caffrey what he knew of Neal's past and what he suspected. He wondered if he'd ever fill in the missing pieces that gave him such unease he hadn't even discussed it with El.

But they had a job to do now, and not much time to do it in, so Peter broke the silence with a sniff and returned to the business at hand. "We have a tracking device and a surveillance team on the DVD package. You and I will be with the team staked out at the holding site. When the word comes that they're moving on the package, we'll breach the facility and arrest the bad guys."

"And the girl?" Neal asked, maintaining his strange stoicism.

"Once the scene is secure, we'll call in the medical team. They're on standby, but we can't keep an ambulance too close without blowing cover."

Neal smirked, but his tone was bitter. "Well, you don't want anyone contaminating the evidence, do you?"

A part of him was ashamed the moment the words left his lips. It was unfair. Peter wasn't even actually in charge, and he'd probably had to pull a few strings to let his pet convict anywhere near this. Neal was aware of how unorthodox their relationship was, and unorthodoxy was a dangerous thing in a bureaucracy.

Neither had Peter's thoughtful pauses and infinitesimal flinches escaped Neal's notice. He knew Burke was worried. He knew that worry didn't just arise from the charged nature of the case, either. And whatever Peter said, this wasn't the normal concern he would show a CI exposed to some gory video footage. Neal was letting his mask slip. He had done it before, sometimes consciously. Because Peter was reliable. Peter was someone he could trust. But trust only goes so far. How could he trust Peter with memories and emotions too dark and savage to admit to himself?

_It is not, nor it cannot come to good_. He recomposed himself, the allusion bringing calm to his mind and space between his emotions and expressions. _But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue_.

"I'm sorry Peter. You don't deserve that." Neal looked away, not wanting to see the hurt and anger in Burke's eyes. But Peter didn't explode or chastise. He didn't raise his voice at all.

"You're right," he said simply. "I don't."

Neal forced himself to meet Peter's gaze, and was surprised to find the agent considering him without anger, disappointment, or pity. It was more like... patience.

And now Neal had to clamp down on himself as a cacophony of feeling tore at his carefully constructed control. He caught glimpses of rage, fear, gratitude, and love before tucking it all neatly away again with a smile.

Peter graciously released the tension. "Boy, you get cranky when we don't feed you, don't you? You had lunch yet?"

Neal embraced the normalcy flowing back into the room. "Do we have time?"

Burke considered his watch. "Well, the package won't be on the move for another couple hours, yet, and we should probably eat before we join the stakeout."

"True. If we eat all the donuts, they may never invite us back," Neal joked.

"Ah, Neal, you know us so well."

The smiles were back, and both men were grateful for the reprieve.

"Well, manners are important in every social circle," Neal said as they rose from their seats.

"So I suppose criminals bring house-warming gifts to their break-ins?"

"Oh, there are goody-bags and everything. So I've heard."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause you're an—"

"—ALLEGED criminal," Neal finished for him.

"Yeah, a jury of your peers had a different opinion," Peter pointed out as they walked out of his office.

Neal let out a dramatic mock sigh. "I should have remembered, 'One should respect public opinion so far as is necessary to avoid starvation and keep out of prison.'"

"Jeez, Neal," Peter said, "Where do you get this stuff?"

Neal just smiled. "Fortune cookies."

Peter's grin grew. "They put Bertrand Russell in fortune cookies now?" He enjoyed Neal's surprised glance. "What? I read!"

...


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost evening when the order finally came. Men and women in uniform dark windbreakers with bright FBI lettering moved silently with their guns drawn. Peter was relieved that Neal stayed back where he was supposed to. He'd had visions of having to tackle Caffrey and physically pin him to the ground until the all clear was received, but now that the time had come, Burke realized how silly that worry had been. Neal was neither stupid nor childish, and however immature he might sometimes seem, he had survived—hell, THRIVED—in a very dangerous international criminal world with only his wits for backup.

So Peter and Neal shadowed the advancing team, following them past run-down offices and battered warehouses. They waited as agents swiftly and almost simultaneously dispatched the three doors leading into the storage facility. They waited and listened to voices shouting identifications and heard one after another reporting their area clear of trouble. They waited and watched as a handful of agents came filing out again, rechecking their position, and clarifying their information. And when the all clear was given with no sign of perpetrator or victim, Neal and Peter walked with heavy hearts into the rundown building half-filled with pallets that waited to be shipped far from this desolate room of frustrated and dejected would-be heroes.

...


	6. Chapter 6

The interior of the car was illuminated with an unsettling combination of yellow and blue from the sulfur lights outside and Peter's cell phone within. Neal continued to stare at the rapidly emptying warehouse as Peter shut his phone with a click. He had been feeling Peter's frustration build with every new piece of information, and his own uselessness choked at him as he listened to Burke's increasingly terse side of the conversation.

The glow of the phone extinguished, they sat in monochromatic silence, each man keenly aware of the other's disappointment and just as miserably aware of their own impotence. It was Neal who finally broke the spell.

"No luck with the other team, then." Caffrey was surprised at how dry his mouth felt when he finally spoke.

"No."

It was quiet again for a moment, before Peter elaborated on his answer. "They tracked the package to its destination, followed the courier to some rental unit, and watched him leave it there. We arrested a man entering the unit, but it turns out he's just some college kid who was hired over the internet."

"A decoy." There was self-recrimination in Neal's voice. "How obvious."

"Yeah," Peter said, his pitch lowering in anger. "We got played."

He looked at Neal and let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, it gets better."

"What?" A knot was tightening in Neal's chest.

"The unit was piled with DVDs. But. The discs are wiped." The knot turned to ice.

"All of them?"

"All of them." Peter was barely containing his anger now, while Neal felt a dreadful realization overtake him.

"A failsafe device," he murmured.

"Yep. Erased everything. Might as well have burned the whole God-damned thing down!"

Neal fixed wide concerned eyes on Peter. "You okay?"

"No! I'm not okay!" Burke erupted before returning to a low seethe and retorting, "Are you?" with something approaching sarcasm.

Neal returned his thoughtful gaze to the buildings around them. "No," he shook his head, his voice dark and his expression clouded.

Peter sighed and silence descended once more. They watched the activity beyond the car windows as agents gathered in clumps to confer before drifting away again.

Peter suppressed a wave of irritation when Caffrey interrupted his brooding. "Peter?"

"What?"

"Is the live feed still running?"

Peter resisted the urge to snap at Neal. "No."

Neal nodded. "When did it stop?"

Peter looked at his partner, who was still considering the building in front of them. "At the same time the storage unit was breached." He felt a bubble of hope forming. What did Caffrey see that he didn't? "Neal, what are you thinking?"

"That we got played," he said with a rueful smile at Peter, who held his annoyance in check at this repetition of his own words. Neal was going somewhere with this, he knew it.

"What are we looking for?" Peter asked as he pulled out his cell phone with rising anticipation.

"Have them check the footage from the same time the warehouse doors were kicked in." Neal paused, the smile growing more genuine with each passing moment as he felt the tumblers locking the puzzle in place fall before him. "The cardiogram."

Opening the car door and sliding gracefully to a stand despite his weariness and aching limbs, Neal smoothed the wrinkles from his tailored jacket. He shut the door and strode toward the warehouse with renewed confidence. He didn't turn his head or slow his pace when he heard Peter slam his own door shut and crunch over the gravel after him while issuing his orders over the phone.

Neal walked the perimeter of the building first, sharp eyes silently taking its measure. When he'd completed his slow circuit he repeated the procedure inside the massive storeroom, taking extra time to examine the adjacent office space with its bathroom and janitorial closet. The exercise seemed pointless to everyone but Peter, who followed with his cell phone to his ear.

The knot of agents Caffrey approached when he had finished his examination looked up from their conference with dull contempt.

"Excuse me, but would any of you gentlemen happen to have a flashlight I might borrow?" Neal asked with ridiculous formality. They glanced at each other, glared at Neal, and—without a word—a middle-aged man with a graying moustache deposited the item into Caffrey's waiting palm. "Thank you," Neal smiled with a trace of a bow.

"I want it back when you're done!" the agent called at Neal's retreating form.

Neal turned and, in his most gracious tone, replied, "Of course."

As he headed toward Peter, Neal heard the agent mutter one word. "Thief."

Peter was waiting. "You were right," he said with satisfaction. "There was a spike in heart rate. She heard us."

"Or felt us," Neal corrected. There was a gleam in his eyes as he asked rhetorically, "They found a computer retransmitting the signal from another location, didn't they?"

Burke cocked his head curiously before replying. This wasn't something he had yet shared with Caffrey. "Yeah. Somewhere nearby. We're getting warrants to search the other buildings." Peter immediately understood the implication of what he'd just said. "If she'd heard us, we would be able to hear her."

"But we can't."

"Because no one can," Peter finished the thought for him and felt like a fool for missing the obvious.

"Or she'd have been found already. There might not usually be a lot of people around, but there are people," Neal continued, his eyes lighting up as he watched Peter quickly coming to the same conclusions.

"So she wasn't reacting to sound." Peter wanted to slap himself. "She was reacting to vibration." He smiled at the beaming convict before him. "She's here. In the building." He looked at the concrete below his feet, then back up at Neal. "Jesus, Neal, it's too simple."

"The best cons are," Neal reminded him.

"A redirect," Burke shook his head, turning away with his hands on his hips. He spun back around and took two steps toward Caffrey. "And you know how to find her, don't you?"

Neal raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I know where to start."

The two men walked outside quickly, a new purpose in their steps that attracted the attention of some of the more observant bystanders. Side-by-side, they made their way around the corner of the structure to where the office space adjoined the warehouse. Two, then three, then four curious agents began to loiter within sight of the pair. Soon almost a dozen men and women were watching Neal feel his way along the corrugated tin siding as Peter lit the scene with the borrowed flashlight.

They worked wordlessly and methodically until Neal pressed one of the panels and felt it give just a little too much. He snapped his head around to meet Peter's eyes, and Burke nodded, coming closer to inspect the seam along which the two pieces of metal very slightly parted ways. The beam of light traced this edge until it met the ground, where an old chunk of broken concrete lay next to the wall. They both bent to pick it up, but Peter got to it first and slid it easily away, revealing a neatly cut rectangular hole. Then he focused the flashlight on the gap as Neal reached a hand into the opening. His fingers connected with something that felt like a metal rod with a bend at the end and he looked up at Peter.

"Got it," Neal breathed.

Caffrey grasped the iron firmly and tried pulling it to the right with no success. He pushed it to the left and felt it turn almost effortlessly. The rod slid down, releasing the door it had been holding shut. Neal withdrew his hand and rose, brushing the dust and gravel from his slacks as he stood back and allowed Peter to cautiously peek into the opening they had created. Burke motioned to the small crowd of agents who had assembled as word of the new development had spread, signaling them to maintain silence. He traded a final glance with Neal, then allowed the door to swing fully open, revealing an old concrete staircase descending into darkness.

...


	7. Chapter 7

It hadn't taken long for the FBI to determine no threat existed in the newly discovered basement. Peter had been among the first into the hidden room, and the moment he reappeared he pulled Caffrey aside and held him by the arm to speak to him in a voice that was softly intense.

"Neal, you don't want to go in there," he warned. "Wait for them to bring her out."

Neal's face was all grim determination as he looked straight into Peter's slightly watering eyes. "Is that an order, Agent Burke?"

Peter's frown deepened. He shook his head and removed his hand from Neal's arm, placing it gently on his shoulder instead. "No."

Apprehension flicked briefly through Neal's eyes, and his shoulders dropped slightly as he released some of his resistance. "It's that bad?"

"It's pretty bad, yeah," Peter replied, watching the young man closely.

Neal nodded solemnly. "Okay."

Peter withdrew his hand and allowed Neal to walk past before turning to follow him down the steps. The thief didn't betray any emotion down the long dark flight. He didn't pause as he passed through the first heavy metal door frame. But when he pushed past the second door and entered the unexpectedly brightly lit room, he had to stop and steel himself against the onslaught of what he encountered there.

The stench was overwhelming. Neal understood now that the shine in Peter's eyes hadn't necessarily been tears of emotion. Like scenting the bouquet of a gruesome wine, Neal couldn't prevent himself from detecting and identifying the metallic sharpness of blood and musty odor of sweat that lurked beneath the open-sewer foulness of human filth. He smelled burnt flesh and rubbing alcohol and cursed his carefully refined senses.

His eye swept the scene and knew the shade of paint required to match the blood dried on the walls and floor, the strokes of charcoal that could be used to capture the precise pose of the body which hung limply from the restraints on either side of it.

Neal stood dumbfounded as rage and grief fought each other to a numb standstill. The woman's back was to him, and as he approached he couldn't escape noticing the tears and burns on the expanse of skin stretched before him like the appalling canvas of a cruel madman. He circled around to face her, seeming oblivious now to anything else, and knelt on the soiled and sticky floor, hardly daring to breathe. He reached out an unsteady hand and gently swept her long dark hair away from her face. She stiffened ever so slightly at his touch, and Neal froze, throwing startled blue eyes up to find Peter standing beside him.

"Oh, God, Peter... she's alive?"

How could he have missed it? No. He knew. He had been so sure of the absence of life before him, so overtaken by the horror of the scene, that he had missed the faint rise and fall of her breath. Because other than that she was so still. So very still.

Peter nodded and Neal was suddenly aware of the other people in the room. He shrugged quickly out of his jacket and placed it around the woman's shoulders as lightly as possible. His hesitant fingers hovered just next to her cheek for a moment before settling softly on the pale and dirty skin and it flashed through his mind that he might have looked very much like this once.

Burke saw a trace of a shudder run through Neal. The convict leaned forward until the heads of the two kneeling figures almost touched. "You're going to be all right," he whispered. He raised his other hand so that he was holding her face in his delicate fingers now. "You will." Neal swallowed back memories of his own terror and hopelessness to concentrate on making the figure in front of him believe his words. "It gets better. It does. I promise."

She began to breathe more rapidly with the exertion of keeping her roiling emotions in check and Neal thought he knew just what she was feeling. God, he didn't want to, but he did. _She's trying not to hope. It's too dangerous, too painful, too close to returning to life and feeling and everything you've given up to protect what's left of your sanity._

Peter had to physically step away from the intimacy in front of him. It broke his heart to see Neal like this. To find their victim in this condition was infuriating enough, but to watch his young friend relive God-knows-what was more than he could take without putting his fist through something. He turned, but instead of finding relief, he found himself staring at a table lined with tools he recognized from the DVDs. There was the tubing he'd watched being forced down their victim's throat sitting next to the scalpels he had seen cut into her flesh. Needles, a hot plate, knives, metal of varying shapes and sizes, intravenous tubes—and he had seen almost every item at its gruesome work. He looked away to bark a little too impatiently at a nearby agent, "Goddammit, where are the bolt cutters? And the medical team? Christ!"

Neal stirred immediately at the words, and dug into his pocket for his lockpick kit, fuming with himself for ignoring something so obvious. "Peter?" he called quietly, his voice still hoarse with emotion. Peter spun to find Caffrey beginning work on the shackle holding the woman's left hand to the metal post sunk in concrete. "A little help?"

"Well, why didn't you do that earlier?" Burke groused.

Neal looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression Peter couldn't quite read before clearing his throat and returning his attention to his task, saying softly, "Hold her arm."

Peter complied. "I'm sorry. I just..."

"I know," Neal cut him off. There was a click and the first bond fell. Peter supported the limb, holding it in place as he called for someone to assist.

"Here," Burke instructed the agent, "Keep the arm elevated. She's probably been in this position long enough that moving it too quickly will cause pain." He relinquished his grasp and moved to repeat the performance on the other side, but found his words already being heeded by the same mustachioed man who had loaned Caffrey his flashlight.

There was a second click, and Neal moved quickly but gently to support her weight with his own, leaning her in to rest against his chest. "Easy," he said. Despite the warmth of the room, she was shivering now, and though Neal was glad to see her allow herself some reaction, he wished he could wrap her up in something more substantial than the light sport jacket he had already draped over her. He wanted to comfort her with an embrace but was afraid to touch her any more than he had to, afraid to inflict any unintentional pain by brushing against one of those many open wounds he had seen or pressing into a hidden bruise.

So he just let her rest against him as he murmured whatever small words of encouragement he could manage until the paramedic s finally appeared in the doorway across from him, and Neal was ushered back up into the fresh night air, obliged to relent his caretaking to better-trained hands.

...


	8. Chapter 8

When Neal returned home that night, he wasn't terribly surprised to find Mozzie waiting for him. He saw by his friend's gaping mouth and wide eyes, though, that Mozzie was surprised to see him. In his exhaustion and distraction, it took Neal a moment to put his finger on just why he was receiving this reaction—until Caffrey realized he no longer possessed the jacket he was reflexively attempting to remove and it occurred to him that shocking probably did not to begin to describe his appearance.

"Neal! My God! What happened?" The balding man pulled his kerchief out and held it to his nose. "Ugh, you reek!"

"Tough day at the office," Neal tried to smile.

"Well," Moz said, shifting into an oddly stilted mother hen mode, "You're not sitting on June's furniture like THAT. Go get cleaned up and I'll wait for you out here." He sat on Neal's couch and reached for a book, blinking up at his friend. "Take as long as you like. I'm a man of leisure, after all. I have time."

The young man hesitated a moment. He didn't feel like talking, really. He didn't want to relive the events of the evening. He didn't want to risk breaking down in front of another person. But he didn't want to be alone either, he realized, and he was suddenly so grateful to have this strange, paranoid, brilliant little man in his life that he had to clear his throat before he could respond.

"Thanks, Moz."

"You're welcome. Bathroom's that way, stinky. Don't skimp on the soap."

Neal walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He stood before the mirror and audibly gasped at the figure reflected before him. The fine material of his pants was splotched with dark stains, especially at and below the knees where they had come in contact with the filthy basement floor. The previously crisp salmon-pink shirt was rumpled and discolored by sweat, blood, and other unidentified fluids. Even Neal's face was flecked with grime, and his red-rimmed blue eyes had dark half-moons under them.

Seeing himself like this shook Neal. Emotional masks meant nothing to the world if the physical mask was not intact. He grimaced at the thought that, after everything he'd seen these last few days, he could find the vanity to be so concerned with what people thought about him. But that was how he'd survived: by carefully observing the people around him and even more carefully crafting their perceptions of him and everything he touched. The conman smiled bitterly. He was his own greatest forgery.

Caffrey took off his shirt and threw it over the mirror, obscuring his view of himself, before he turned away and continued to disrobe.

...

Mozzie looked up when he heard the bedroom door open and was relieved to see Neal looking much more relaxed, not to mention far cleaner, than when he'd first set eyes on him that night. Caffrey leaned against the doorframe in his old-fashioned silken pajamas and smiled as Mozzie pushed a steaming cup into his hands.

"Really, Moz? Hot cocoa?"

"Don't argue with the classics, kid," he retorted, sitting at the table. He saluted with his own mug and continued, "Besides, this is not just any hot chocolate. It's Belgian, dark, and with a little something extra to make it suitable for adults."

Neal sniffed at the dark swirling liquid. "Amaretto. Nice." A cloud passed over Neal's face. He kept staring into his mug. It smelled good. It smelled really good. But even with the warm scents of chocolate and almond wafting from the drink between his palms, his nose was still filled with foul odors from a room locked beneath a distant warehouse. He walked to the table and put the drink down without tasting it.

"You don't like it?" Mozzie asked.

Neal sat down. "It's good, it's just..." he considered making an excuse, but just looked up and smiled.

"Yeah. Okay. Don't worry about it. So... what happened?"

Caffrey's smile dimmed but didn't go out as he paused and took a deep breath. He didn't know how to begin. But he knew that the question Mozzie really wanted answered was the same one he himself had asked.

"She's alive," he said.

Mozzie released a sigh of relief. "Oh, well, that's good. When you came in looking, you know, the way you did, I thought maybe..." Neal couldn't meet his friend's gaze and Moz knew that a part of his intuition had been correct. "But it was bad?"

"You have no idea."

"But she'll be okay, right?"

"I don't know," Neal shook his head. "It didn't look good, but I won't know anything for sure until I talk to Peter tomorrow. I think, physically, she'll survive. But I don't know."

"Physically," Mozzie repeated. He heard the unspoken implication of the word, and leaped past its immediate meaning into the subtle admission of his friend's own hidden wounds. "And how are you holding up?"

Neal sipped the concoction before him, buying time as he considered how fully to answer the question. He swallowed the warm, rich liquid and savored the slow burn of alcohol down his throat and the nutty aftertaste of the liqueur. Moz knew him well and meant well. Neal knew that. He owed some version of the truth to the bespectacled man.

"I'll be okay," was the carefully selected phrase Neal settled on. He sighed. "Seeing something like that..." his voice trailed off. "It reminded me..." he tried to start again but couldn't finish this sentence either. Finally Caffrey just smiled at Moz and said, "I hope you didn't come here tonight for witty banter—I seem to be fresh out."

Mozzie snorted out a laugh, "Not possible. The Neal Caffrey I know could charm the keys to hell away from the devil himself."

"You've been reading that Inferno translation."

"I'm telling you, it's good." He fidgeted a little and grew serious. "Did I ever tell you about that foster home I was in? With the minister?"

"No."

"Well, there's a reason for that. I don't like to think about it. Not a nice man." Mozzie stopped for a moment, remembering with a frown. "He believed in authority, and I mean really believed. The kind of belief that lets you do anything, no matter how wrong, because you know you're on the side of goodness and truth and everything else that goes out the window as soon as you let some officious belief system take over your thinking for you." His hands were clenched now, and his words began to take on a tone of disgust. It was a side of the himself he rarely revealed, even to Neal.

"Moz," Neal asked quietly, "What did he do?"

"Prototypical bully," he replied bitterly into his mug. "He preferred to pick on girls." Mozzie let out a short, grim laugh. "Besides, I think he knew I was a lost cause. Heaven save us from those who want to save our souls." He looked up at Neal, whose eyes were wide with worry and shock.

"Mozzie? You don't... you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"No," Moz nodded his head. "I think you should hear this."

Neal nodded and remained silent.

"Anyway," Mozzie continued, "There was this girl... I was in love." He smiled at the memory, adjusting his glasses at the mental image. "She was beautiful. Dark curly hair, skin like espresso, and the most amazing green eyes I've ever seen. And smart! You would have liked her. She was always reading—anything she could get her hands on. She's the one who showed me the first art book I ever saw. It was a book on Degas, with these black-and-white photos of his sculptures and full color prints of his paintings. But her favorite were comic books."

Neal almost laughed. "Comic books? Really?"

"Hey, what do you want, we were kids!" exclaimed a suddenly defensive Mozzie. "I mean, what? You think we'd be debating the finer points of existentialism? We were in elementary school!"

Caffrey held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry! I guess I just assumed you were born reading Kafka."

"Mmmm, Kafka's good, but Koestler is the underappreciated one," Mozzie mused. "Now there's an author who understood the danger of blind obedience to dogma! Now don't interrupt me."

He paused to pick up the story where he'd left off. "Right, so, this girl, Martha, she liked comic books, but she couldn't GET comic books. No money. So I thoughtfully ACQUIRED some for her."

"You stole them."

"What can I say, I was precocious. And you're interrupting again. Anyway. Mr. Preacher Man found them. In Martha's room. Now, he wasn't the nicest man in the best of times. He used to hit us with a belt, lock us in the closet, that sort of thing. Which isn't too unusual in some circles, especially back then. But this time..." Moz closed his eyes with a pained expression. "I didn't understand it at the time. I just knew he was hurting her and I wanted it to stop. It didn't occur to me until years later to wonder what he was doing in her room in the middle of the night in the first place. Or why she had her own room when the rest of us kids had to share."

"Oh, God, Moz." The blood had drained from Neal's face. "I'm so sorry."

Mozzie waved Neal's words away. "I'm not telling you this to get sympathy. It's just... sometimes you can't keep something terrible from happening right in front of you, you know? But what you can do is be there for the aftermath. You've already done so much more than I was able to do. Neal, I don't know if you realize how much good you do. Even if you are working for The Man. You were able to put an end to it; get her out of there. You've done a good thing. You'll never forget what you saw, but you've done a good thing."

The young man turned these words over in his mind quietly. He understood why it was supposed to be reassuring, but somehow it wasn't.

"What happened to her? To Martha?" Neal asked.

"Well...," Mozzie shifted in his chair again and stared at the table. "I was moved out into another foster home, so we lost touch." He was holding back, not wanting to admit something that clearly still troubled him after all these years.

"But...," Neal prodded. When Moz didn't respond, Caffrey added gently, "The Mozzie I know couldn't let it rest until he found out what happened."

Moz's voice was curt and his words were clipped. "She killed herself." Neal had to close his eyes and turn his head away for a moment as the echo of his friend's grief overwhelmed him. He wanted to reach out and grasp Mozzie's shoulder tightly, to anchor the man to safety, but Neal restrained himself and listened. "At least, that's what the police report said. Never trust reports. They're just The Man's biases set in concrete." Mozzie looked up, saw the pained concern etched in Neal's eyes and brow, and took a deep breath. "I've never told this to anyone before."

"Thank you." Neal meant it. He could see how much it cost the paranoid little man to reveal so much about his past and his inner life. It really was a testament to their growing friendship and trust, and Neal knew they had stepped far beyond the confines of "colleagues" or "accomplices." That seemed to be happening a lot these days. The relationships he'd formed in the criminal world had been intense, but unstable, ready to be renegotiated with every change in circumstance. This relatively honest life was proving to be no less intense, but in a different, more intimate way.

"So," Mozzie said into the comfortable silence between them, "Tell me what happened. All of it."

Neal leaned back in the chair, taking another long pull from his cocoa. Yeah, he could do this now. He could tell the story. And he could tell it without breaking into pieces, as he'd been afraid of earlier. He'd leave out the parts where he'd flashed back to his own ordeal, but that would be okay. His friends would be ready to listen when he was ready to talk. He could trust them.

And for that moment, that one thought brought Neal the peace he'd been denied for a very long time.

...


	9. Chapter 9

Peter tried to creep into his home as quietly as possible, praying futilely that Elizabeth would be sound asleep. He wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and crawl in bed next to his wife, holding her close and safe and never letting her out of his sight into the unpredictable evils of the world. He wanted her to wake up in the morning blissfully ignorant that her husband had dragged himself through their front door smelling like some freak's torture chamber. He didn't want to see the look in her eyes when she saw the stain on his shirt, the way her expression would change subtly from one kind of worry to another as she realized the blood belonged not to him, but to the victim he'd rescued. More than anything, he never wanted Elizabeth to look into his eyes and see any trace of the ugly and violent thoughts that had been running through his mind since he had descended into that God-awful dungeon to bear witness with every sense he owned to the depravity of man.

But he knew the woman he had married, and he knew before he even saw her descending the staircase that she would be there for him, ready to hold him and help him and listen to him, but never ready for him to shut her out. And as she embraced him by the dim light of the streetlamp filtering into through the window, Peter thanked God for letting him have this one amazing, unambiguously wonderful thing in his life.

...

In the darkness of their living room, Peter lay on the sofa with his head in Elizabeth's lap and his hand on her cheek. Like Neal, he had showered as soon as he got home. Unlike Neal, he implicitly trusted the person to whom he returned, though he'd left quite a bit out of his descriptions of the crime scene and victim. There were things he never wanted his wife to even begin to picture.

"It's terrible," Elizabeth murmured, placing a kiss on her husband's forehead.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "The thing is, even if we catch this guy—and we might not—what kind of justice can there be? I mean, he or they or whatever didn't just take money or property. They didn't even just kill her. They inflicted pain. On purpose. They took her life and left her alive to experience it for God knows how long, over and over again." He stopped and sighed. "Does that even make sense, or have I been up too long? I feel like I'm rambling."

"No, honey, it makes sense. But you're going to find out who did this and you're going to lock them up so they can never hurt anyone again. It's what you do, and you're very good at it."

"But El, that's what I'm saying: there's no punishment that can begin to compare to the crime committed here. There is nothing that even approaches adequate, if only because the bastard would at least know why it was happening to him."

"So maybe what you do isn't about punishment. Maybe it's not about the criminals and the bad guys at all. Maybe it's really about the good people you protect, and the people you help."

"I don't know," Peter sighed. "I used to think there was some kind of balance to the world. It was nice; it made sense. Now... I'm not so sure. I have a criminal as a partner..."

"Ex-criminal," Elizabeth corrected.

"Yeah, just barely," came Peter's mirthless laugh. "And I'm not always so sure about the 'barely' part, either. Some of the stuff he pulls... well, it's not exactly in the FBI field manual."

"But look at Neal. I mean really look at who he was and who he is now. You've changed him, Peter. You've made his life better, and now he makes other people's lives better. He used to steal from them and now he helps them."

"But that's just it. Sure, so maybe I'm changing Caffrey. But he's changing me, too. I accept the rules getting bent further and further. Sometimes I'm even the one bending them. Or breaking them."

"So... you think working with Neal is corrupting you?"

"I just don't know anymore, El. But after what I saw tonight... the world is a sick, sick place."

It broke her heart to see her husband like this, in pain and embittered. She stroked his hair and tried to think of something comforting or wise. Something that could ease his mind, even just a little, and soothe his heart.

He closed his eyes, relaxing at her gentle touch, and tried to let the case melt from his mind. Against his closed eyelids, though, the scenes replayed themselves against his will. Descending into the darkness. Opening that second door. Being blinded by the sudden exposure to the bright lights of the hidden room. The warm mass of putrid air suffocating him, driving him back a step. The sickness in his heart and stomach when his eyes adjusted and he encountered in the flesh what had already horrified him over a television monitor. He hadn't been prepared. Couldn't have been prepared. And it had occurred to him that he was going to have to walk back up those damned steps and try to convince his partner—his artistic, sensitive friend who had already seen too much—not to come down here. And he was going to fail.

"Oh, God, hon', you should have seen Neal," Peter said, opening his eyes, unable to let go just yet.

Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt at not having thought of it before, not having asked after the welfare of the man who had been such a large part of their lives, in such different ways, for so long. Especially since they'd just been talking about him.

"You mean your ex-criminal?" she reminded him.

"I know, I know. It's unfair of me. I don't think we would have found her, at least not as quickly, if he hadn't been there. But... you know how he hides things, hides himself behind those silly hats and expensive clothes."

"Peter, I think that's just called good taste," she teased. "But yes, I know what you mean."

"Something's going on with him."

"Again?" Elizabeth sounded amused. "You know, one of these days you should really just fill out the adoption papers and make it official."

Peter couldn't see her face in the shadows, but he knew her azure eyes were twinkling at him. "All right, I know, point taken," he grumbled.

"Oh, honey, don't get like that," she remonstrated gently. "I like that you worry about Neal. It's part of who you are. You care about people. Judge them on their merits. It's..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"Oooh, just don't say 'sweet!'" Peter interrupted, "That has to be the unmanliest word in the English language." He was the one teasing now. She swatted his stomach playfully and they sat in comfortable silence until Elizabeth spoke.

"So what's wrong with Neal?" she asked.

"I don't know. I feel like he's reliving something, like this case is taking him back to something dark. It's messing with his head."

"I would think it's messing with everyone's head," El replied.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, "But it's different with Neal. You didn't see him. He was kneeling in front of this girl, whispering like he was, I don't know, communing with her or something. He was completely oblivious to everything else. And he was SHAKING afterward. Even with the whole Kate thing, I've never seen him quite this... exposed."

"You're thinking he's seen this before?"

"I'm thinking he's experienced this before. Or something like it. There's a lot we don't know about him from before he turned up on our radar And not all of it can be carefree happy hour Caffrey. It worries me. Can I help him? Should I help him? I'm not good with this kind of emotional thing."

"Of course you should, and you're just fine with 'emotional things,'" Elizabeth retorted. "You just have to be there for him. You helped him with Kate."

"Yeah, and look how that turned out," Peter snorted.

"Oh, stop. As long as he knows he can trust you and talk to you, it'll be alright. You'll see." She kissed his nose and smiled. "I married a smart man."

"And I married a brilliant woman." Then he smiled and added, "With low expectations in her men."

"Peter!"

And they laughed, and held each other, and kissed.

...


	10. Chapter 10

At the office the next day, Neal was surprised to see Jones and Barrigan arrive well after him. Smiling broadly, Caffrey bounded up the stairs to Peter's office and knocked on the glass next to the door before entering.

"Hey, Peter."

"Hey, Neal. Isn't there something in your etiquette books about waiting for a response before opening a door?"

"Yeah, but it's casual Friday."

"It's Thursday."

"Close enough."

"Since when do you do casual anything, anyway?" Peter asked, giving Neal a hard look.

"I can do casual," Neal defended. "It just doesn't look casual when I do it."

Burke sighed, already tiring of the game. "What do you want, Caffrey?"

"I just saw Diana and Jones come in," Neal replied.

"You're not here to tattle on them for being late, are you?"

"Of course not. I'm impressed you got them to stay away for so long. I know you threatened me with jail—again—if I came in before 10:30, but what could you have held over their heads?"

Peter smiled despite himself. "I told them I'd order a psych eval unless they got some extra rest today."

Neal laughed, delighted. "Oh Peter, that's terrible! Using the threat of mental health to coerce your agents into behaving? What would the AMA say?"

Burke put his pen down and leaned back in his chair. "I think they'd say that after last night we all needed a little time to recover. Now what's this really about?"

Neal closed the door behind him and sat down. He began to put his feet up, looked at Peter, and set them back on the ground.

"I had a visit from a friend last night," he began.

"Ah. Which of your felonious buddies was it this time?"

"Peter," Neal gave his best mockery of wounded pride, "I'm sure that none of my recent visitors have ever been convicted in a court of law. At least," he added, "Not that they'd mentioned."

"Of course not," Peter responded with feigned seriousness, "And it's not polite to ask, right?"

"The height of impropriety," Caffrey agreed.

"You know, I really do have work to get to, so if you don't mind...?"

Peter felt Neal's mood downshift, but he couldn't figure out how he knew. The conman's smile remained the same.

"How's our patient?" Neal asked.

Burke set aside his files to concentrate directly on his consultant. "I got an update this morning from Holbert. Oh, and he wants his flashlight back, by the way. She's going to be okay. All the wounds were shallow, so they should heal without even leaving too much scarring. They're more worried about infection."

Neal closed his eyes for just a moment too long to be natural, and inhaled sharply. "Shallow," he said, his voice tight. "To keep the nerve endings intact. Cause more pain." He looked away briefly as if to clear his head, and asked, "What else?"

Peter was watching closely, but didn't comment on Neal's reaction. "She's in surprisingly good shape, considering. Not terribly dehydrated, not malnourished."

"The forced tube feedings," Caffrey remembered.

Burke nodded and continued, "They're keeping her heavily sedated until the worst of the pain is over. No one's been able to question her at length yet. She's being kept in a clean room with limited contact to prevent possible infection." He stopped, unsure if he should reveal this next piece of information, but he knew the young man would find out eventually. "Neal, the burns and... other injuries cover over half of her body. If anything gets infected she could lose a limb. Or die. It's amazing she hasn't died from shock or infection or something already."

Neal nodded, his smile gone and brow furrowed. "ID?"

"Not yet," Peter told him. "The doctors wouldn't let us get prints the traditional way with ink, so the hospital improvised with some sterile microscope slides and sent them over. They're being run through now and we could get them at any time if she's in any federal system. Or we might get nothing and have to look state by state."

Neal nodded again. "Which brings us to what... my friend and I were talking about."

"Caffrey, I'm tired and I know it's gotta be Mozzie or Haversham or whatever he's calling himself this week, so just cut the crap and tell me what you know."

"Ooh, do you kiss Elizabeth with that mouth?"

"Neal...," Burke warned.

Raising his eyebrows, Neal put his hands up, and Peter noted the file folder he held in one of them. "There are some things about this whole setup that don't make any sense." Caffrey began counting the points down on his fingers. "One: the feed to Bobby's place. Why go through the trouble—and potential exposure—of having a third party operate as a middle man when it would be so easy to direct the feed right to their own more secure location?"

Peter nodded.

"Two," Neal continued, "The storage unit where the DVDs where found? The fail-safe device was triggered by opening the door. I'd have to look at it myself to be sure, but if the report is correct, there was no way to get in that room WITHOUT erasing everything. Which means that every time a new batch was delivered, the old ones were erased. So why store them at all?"

Burke folded his hands behind his head and leaned back as he listened with growing interest.

"Three: look at these photos taken of the warehouse this morning," Caffrey said as he laid them on Peter's desk. The agent leaned forward to examine the glossy color prints, then snapped his head up to meet Neal's smiling eyes. "Yeah. You see it? In daylight it's hardly even hidden."

"That wasn't a secret door," Peter shook his head.

"Nope. Just a marginally difficult-to-notice door with a secret handle," Neal agreed. "There's more. Why the misdirect feed at the warehouse? It might give someone in that room time to escape, but it makes the entire area easier to find. For that matter, why use wireless transmission at all? It would be easier, cheaper, and safer to run the video and other signals straight to a recording device on-site."

"Maybe they're just not very good at this," Peter suggested, but neither of them believed it.

"Okay," Neal countered, "then there's this." He placed another paper before Burke, who picked it up and read it quickly before putting it back on the desk with more force than was strictly necessary. This just kept getting stranger.

"We're going to have a little talk later about how you got all these so fast," Peter leveled a finger at Neal, "But I found a few things, too." He opened the file by his right hand and passed it to Caffrey before continuing. "So your little paper shows that the storage unit was only opened three months ago..." He waited for Neal to finish scanning the first few pages in his hands.

"And your little paper shows that Bobby was hired at the same time," Neal finished for him in a wondering voice, looking up for a moment before returning to peruse the file.

"Yep. Which just happens to be right around the same time that we were tipped off about Bobby's operation." Peter's face scrunched in puzzlement. "Another thing: the storage unit, the warehouse rental, Bobby's fees—all of it was paid from the same account."

"Which makes it way too easy to connect the dots," Neal mumbled, still reading. He looked up again. "Peter this makes no sense. The account itself was set up with no way to trace it. Established in cash using proxies..."

"Yeah, these guys went to a lot of trouble to hide who they are and then sent up flares to tell us where they are."

Neal threw the file onto Peter's desk and leaned back, thinking. "So they wanted to get found out without getting caught."

"What do you think? Are they trying to brag or rub our noses in it? 'Oooh, look what I can get away with'?"

Neal shook his head. "No. Whoever this is, they're not emotional. This is very cerebral, very planned... but why?"

"You tell me," Peter said, leaning back in his own chair. "You ever come across anyone capable of pulling something like this? 'Cause it smells like a scam. And I don't like the idea that the FBI is the mark."

"But what's the endgame?" Caffrey wondered. "Why the cameras, encephalograms, cardiogram? It's like the Marquis de Sade's science fair project."

"I'd hate to see what the other kids are submitting."

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Clinton Jones poked his head in the door. "You wanted the ID for last night's victim as soon as we got it, Boss."

Burke waved him in, took the papers, and began to read.

"Hey, Caffrey," Jones greeted.

"Hey, Jones," Neal returned, "You were on the package stakeout last night?"

"Yeah. It was a bust. And not in the good way."

Neal gave him a sympathetic smile. "In my alleged former line of work, 'bust' was never meant in a good way." He stopped. "Wait, that's not true…."

"Neal, I'm reading," Peter warned without looking up.

"And how come Jones doesn't get the 'wait for my response after you knock' speech?" Neal queried.

"Maybe because he doesn't have to worry about me sneaking files from his office," Clinton responded for his boss, looking down at Neal with a half-hidden grin.

Caffrey pulled his face into an exaggerated frown. "Oh, don't sell yourself short, you could steal files, too. It's a learned skill," he consoled. Then added, "Not that I've ever done anything like that, of course."

"Of course," Jones agreed.

"Both of you shush," Peter muttered. "Jones, grab a chair."

The young agent sat down and they waited uncomfortably for Peter to finish his reading. Neal shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his chin in his hand. He tried to look patient, but the finger tapping his cheekbone gave him away. Finally, Caffrey looked over to Jones and asked, "What does it say?"

"It says," Peter responded for him, "that our girl is a ghost."

Neal furrowed his brow. "A stolen identity?"

At last Burke looked up from the file. "Nope. She was reported dead a little under two years ago, but it's her."

Peter and Neal exchanged a significant look as Caffrey asked, "Isn't that around the same time the warehouse was rented by our mystery man?"

"Yep." Peter droned through some of the relevant facts. "Abigail Harvey, age 30 when she 'died,' making her 32 now. From California. Her prints are in the system for clearance to work in a school and... whoa! Bio-security level four in a laboratory in Southern California. Impressive. Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head. Self-inflicted."

"Suicide?" Neal felt a sudden chill spread through his chest.

"Shortly after signing herself out of a psychiatric hospital. Against Medical Advice." Peter's voice was tinged with disgust. He looked tired as he handed the folder across the desk to Caffrey. As Neal began to scan the pages, Burke ran a hand over his face and asked, "Jones, what's your take on this?"

"Well, Sir," Clinton responded evenly, "Someone has done a very good job disappearing this woman. It took planning, connections, and resources. I'd say we're looking for someone with money, education, and a connection to that hospital. Or its computer system."

"Go on."

"The records indicate that she checked herself out, but given that she was in the Intensive Care Unit I find that highly unlikely," Jones continued, "which implies falsification of records."

"Mmm, that could be," Peter said thoughtfully, "But she voluntarily committed herself in the first place, so they legally wouldn't be able to hold her if she chose to go."

Jones nodded. "Yes, but psychiatric ICUs are locked down and monitored. She couldn't have just walked out. It would have been difficult for her to contact anyone outside. The personnel would have discouraged any effort to sign herself out..."

"...unless she was being released into someone's care," Neal interrupted. He looked up from the papers in his hands. "There's a page missing from the release documentation. See?" He handed the sheaf back to Peter. "Page four of five."

"And there's no five." Peter sighed. "Okay, so maybe I should have slept in this morning, too. I should've caught that." Neal and Jones exchanged a glance before Burke continued. "Of course, this technically isn't even our case. Still... maybe Holbert won't mind if we offer our assistance. I know Frank. He's a decent agent. Jones, go back to the media case we were working until you hear from me. I'll see if I can't arrange something to keep our fingers in the pot."

Jones rose and headed for the door, "Will do, Boss."

"Neal," Peter said as soon as the door was closed again, "Let's do lunch."

...


	11. Chapter 11

It was almost one before Peter found time for his lunch break. Neal had waited uncomfortably, going over everything available on what they were now calling the "Abby Harvey case," and gathering some new information in his own unique, not-entirely-sanctioned ways. Watching Peter through the glass walls of his office had been like watching a storm approach. Neal knew a confrontation of some variety was inevitable, but what form it would take was still a mystery. Peter never did like dealing with emotional issues, so there was a chance he would concentrate his questions on Neal's information-gathering techniques instead. But Caffrey sensed he wasn't going to get out of this that easily.

Neal hid his frayed nerves under pleasant banter but it did not escape his attention that Peter's part of the conversation was a little too forcibly congenial as they drove a route Caffrey found worrisomely familiar.

"Are we going to June's?" Neal finally asked.

"Yeah. El's catering us today. She wants our opinion—well, YOUR opinion—on a menu for an event she has coming up. Some prize banquet or other."

"What kind of prize?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, you'd have to ask El about that. I'm sure she mentioned it, but... something to do with books or something."

Neal nodded his head slowly. "Uh huh." He waited a beat before telling Peter, "You know, I've seen you lie a lot more convincingly under a lot more pressure."

"I'm not lying!" Burke exclaimed. He glanced over at Caffrey, who just fixed him with a knowing look until Peter's resolve to maintain the charade wavered... and broke. "Well... it's not a complete lie. El does want your opinion. And she does have an event coming up."

"A book prize banquet?" Neal was just twisting the knife now.

"A book reading. If you must know. Some comic book thing. The guy's name sounds like the Senator who ran for President."

"Obama?"

"Cute. No, McCain. Mackey. Something like that." When Peter next caught sight of Neal, he had to look twice. The young man's mouth was gaping and his eyes wide in disbelief.

"McKean?"

"That's it! See, I knew it was McSomething."

"Dave McKean?"

"Is there an echo? Yeah, that sounds about right. Why? It's comic books, it's not like it's literature or something."

Peter parked the car and looked over at Neal while putting on the emergency brake. Neal was shaking his head and throwing the most annoying amused glances at the agent. They got out of the car and headed to the door, with Neal still smiling to himself. Was it just last night that he had teased Mozzie about comics?

"Is there any chance I can meet him?" Caffrey asked.

Incredulous, Peter checked to see if his ward was joking, but saw only enthusiasm in the shining blue eyes. "You want to meet some comic book guy? Isn't that supposed to be below your artistic oeuvre?"

Neal laughed as he opened the front door and stood aside for Peter to enter before him. "That's like calling Sondheim 'some song-writing guy.' Dave McKean is a graphic artist who works in multiple media, often at the same time. He's one of the leading figures in the legitimization of comic books and graphic novels as a recognized serious artistic form. McKean did a graphical rendition of Dylan's 'Desolation Row' that the L.A. Times called 'A stunning Goya-esque riff on American society.'"

Peter trudged up the stairs and called over his shoulder, "Jesus, Neal how do you keep all this stuff in your head?"

Caffrey was glad his partner couldn't see the wistful expression he was sure he wore as he followed in the man's footsteps. "I was a teenager when I first saw his work. It was revelatory."

Burke turned at Neal's door, waiting for it to be unlocked, and just caught the faint remnants of unguarded reminiscence as it disappeared under Neal's trademark blazing smile. As they entered the apartment, both men caught scent of Elizabeth's offering which waited on perfectly arranged and garnished plates on the dining table.

"Wow," Caffrey said, raising his eyebrows at Peter. "Impressive. Just curious: how did this get in here without anyone to let Elizabeth in?"

Peter threw out an honest-to-goodness smirk as he answered, "As your... chaperone to the law-abiding world, I hold the keys to your kingdom. And loaned them to my wife."

"Great." Neal was suddenly clearly bitter. "Looks like I'll have to invest in a moat."

Peter felt a pang of regret at the look of betrayal he received, but he reminded himself that Caffrey had clearly shown—multiple times—that he needed to be monitored. Still, it wasn't wise to flaunt this symbol of distrust just before asking the con man to open himself up, and Burke felt like a fool for letting silly one-upmanship get in the way of the task at hand.

"Hey," he tried to ease the tension with a joke, "An invasion of privacy that comes with a spread like this can't be all bad."

Neal's smile was shallow, but he allowed himself to appear mollified, even as he directed a little dig at Peter. "If they fed us like this in my other prison, I might never have escaped."

Not good. Peter could feel the tension as both men eyed each other, their barriers rising with every passing moment. He swore at himself and mentally fumbled for a way to break through the growing frost. Neal had been on guard before they even left the office, and Peter knew it. He had hoped meeting on Caffrey's home turf would smooth things over and instill a sense of safety that would bring some of the secrets of the young man's past to light. Instead he had fucked it up by demonstrating just how unsafe Neal's refuge really was. Christ, Neal had a way of getting under his skin.

Peter sighed and pushed his frustration and pride down. He put a hand to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"I did," Neal said softly, putting the smiling mask charmingly in place. "I guess I just didn't think you'd use it."

Neal didn't know how he had let himself forget. He needed to remember more often that Peter was a law enforcement officer charged with shepherding a felon and not an accomplice on a benevolent con. The reassurance that Burke was a man who consistently played by the rules was countered by the fact that those same rules placed the agent in a position of power and authority over him every time. It sometimes chafed at his spirit as much as the anklet chafed at his skin.

Peter's heart sank when he saw the shades go down in Neal's eyes. God, was this going to be over before it even began? Maybe El was right. Maybe honesty was the best policy here. Caffrey could smell a con from a mile away and it wasn't going to do their relationship any favors to try to pretend there was no agenda here.

They sat across from each other at the table and Neal surveyed his plate before looking up at Peter. "Wow, this looks great!" he said. "Oh, look, Peter, Elizabeth already decanted the wine for us. How thoughtful."

"Shall I pour?" Peter asked.

"I don't see why not," Caffrey responded, his smile still in place. _One may smile and smile and be a villain._ The thought and accompanying image stole Neal's breath and almost swept the expression from his face, but Neal gamely held on to it as though nothing was wrong. He placed his napkin in his lap and hid his hand under it for a moment, clenching and unclenching a fist until the tremors subsided enough to reach for his glass.

"Oooh," Neal said after his first taste of the red. He picked up the bottle to examine its label, "A bold choice to pair with duck. Pinot Noir from Pupillin. A pretty new vintner, too, I think." He replaced the bottle and took up his knife and fork, looking over at Peter, who had already begun on his lunch. "Well, Agent Burke? What's the verdict?"

Peter took another sip of wine before responding. "It's good. I don't usually like duck. It can be fatty. But this is perfect."

Neal smiled his response and the two ate in silence for a while. As Peter poured them both another glass, Neal raised his eyebrows in wordless askance.

"What?" Burke asked. Neal glanced at Peter's glass and back up at Peter, who rolled his eyes. "I'm not going back to the office after this." He caught Neal's surprise and elaborated, "I didn't get enough sleep last night." Had it really only been last night? Not even twenty-four hours since they'd last left the warehouse?

They continued their meal accompanied only by their own thoughts and the clinking of silverware against ceramic. When he'd finished, Neal poured himself a third glass of wine and sat back in his chair to carefully examine an empty patch of air somewhere in the middle of the room. Peter put his utensils down and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin as he prepared to speak.

He couldn't figure out where to start. He knew Neal Caffrey's file better than anyone else at the Bureau and he flattered himself to think he probably knew the man better than anyone alive save—perhaps—Mozzie. Neal had even told him once that Peter was the only one he trusted. Jesus, how pathetic was that? How little trust had Caffrey given and received in his short life if the only one he had faith in was the man who had hunted him for years, testified against him, imprisoned him, and now held him on an electronic leash?

It was Neal who broke Peter's silent soliloquy.

"What do you want to ask me, Peter?"

Burke was a little startled. Neal still wasn't looking at him. He was sipping his drink, swirling the liquid over his tongue thoughtfully before swallowing and repeating the process until the glass was once again empty.

Peter thought of his wife's advice. She was usually right about these things.

"Neal, I want you to tell me about your past."

The young man gifted his glass with a slow, sad smile before setting it on the table. "I'm afraid the statute of limitations hasn't expired on much of it."

Peter grimaced. "I'm not talking about your criminal pursuits. Not entirely, anyway. I'm not trying to trick you into confessing something. I just..." He searched for the words to express how unsettling it was to watch a friend grapple with something he couldn't share. He wanted to say that Neal could tell him anything, but Peter knew that wasn't true. "I'm not... I'm not going to use what you say against you in a court of law. I'm not... It's..."

Jesus, this really wasn't his strong suit. He'd thought it had been bad after Kate, and after Mozzie, but at least then he'd had some idea of just what was troubling Neal. These were truly alien waters, and Peter did not like not knowing what was under them.

He leaned his elbows onto the table and scratched the back of his head before blurting out, "I'm worried about you, Neal." There. It was out there and now they could deal with the fallout.

Neal finally met Peter's persistent gaze, his blue eyes registering shock, then apprehension, before settling into something more enigmatic. When he spoke it was with one cool and nonchalant word: "Why?"

It hit Peter like a brick through the teeth. Angry indignation flooded him. Oh, Caffrey wasn't going to make this easy, was he? He never did. This con man... no, this KID... And as quickly as it had come, the fury subsided. It was a child's question, spoken by a man gifted enough with words to grasp the complexity of that one simple little syllable. And it was a sad, hopeless question that sparked another anger in the protective part of Peter that wanted the world to be a fairer, more just place than it was. Why would he worry? Why would he care? Was that what he was really being asked? Jesus, why WOULDN'T he care? Not for the first time he wondered what the hell the world had done to this kid to make him at once so charming and so jaded. And not for the first time he wondered if Neal had ever even had a chance at a normal life.

Peter pursed his lips and closed his eyes, feeling suddenly tired and more than a little old. He chose his next words carefully. "Because you're my friend," he said. Peter opened his eyes and looked straight at Neal. "There's something bothering you. And I want to help. That's what friends do."

Neal felt like every muscle in his body was pulled taut. His jaw ached. He concentrated on controlling his breath, but his voice still sounded choked. "I'm sorry, Peter. I can't." He looked away in embarrassment, steadied himself for a moment until the shine had left his eyes, and looked back to find Peter still leveling that steady gaze at him.

They stayed that way, just looking at each other, until Peter, those deep brown eyes somehow sad and angry at the same time, threw Neal's own simple question back at him. "Why?"

Neal felt himself start to crack. He couldn't do this. Not now. Not ever. He had left it all so far behind that he had hardly even thought of it until this past week. _The past is never dead. It's not even past._ No. He wasn't going there. He didn't need to. It was over, gone, and pointless to revisit. Then why was his heart racing? Why was his right fist clenched? His splayed left hand digging white-tipped fingers into the table? Why was that face looming over his prone form and smiling? _O villain, villain, smiling damned villain!_

"No. Peter. Just... don't." His voice was shaking and he hated himself for it. Too much had happened. Losing Kate. Almost losing Mozzie. Almost losing Peter. He was worn thin. Like old socks. Old, mismatched socks on cold, cold feet. Neal reached for anything to break his fall and found Eliot waiting like a cool pool of water.

_Because I know that time is always time_

_And place is always and only place_

_And what is actual is actual only for one time_

_And only for one place_

_I rejoice that things are as they are and_

_I renounce the blessed face_

It had the reassuringly melodic lilt of liturgy and the association of quiet and safety as afternoons rolled into evenings, natural light giving way to florescence on the familiar unchanging paper in his hands.

Neal sighed, relaxing into the present moment, and painted a weak counterfeit of an apologetic grin on his face. Peter's worry was fairly plastered over him now, and Neal knew it had looked as bad as it felt.

"Everyone has things in their past, Peter," Neal softly explained, laying a gentle emphasis on _past_, "that they don't want to go back to." He wanted to beg the agent to let this go, but even that would be giving too much away. And hadn't he revealed enough already, without even speaking? It would have to be done with words. Calm, sensible, logical words, carefully connected to each other in the proper order to achieve the desired result, with just enough emotion to convince Peter that he had gotten as much of what he came for as he was going to get.

Burke watched Neal, listened to him, and was surprised with himself when he heard his own reply. "Bullshit, Neal." He saw Caffrey crumple just a little, but there was no way in hell he was letting this go on any longer than necessary. The kid needed someone. He needed honesty. And he was gonna get it whether he liked it or not.

"Neal, what just happened right now," Peter tapped the table with a finger, "you were not in control. That was a flashback. I saw you go through them after... after the plane exploded. I let it go then. And I was wrong. I shouldn't have." His expression softened and his voice wavered ever so slightly. "It kills me to see you like this."

Neal's eyes widened, and he began to retreat back into himself again.

"No," Peter said. "Stop it. I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm telling you that it's not just you anymore. You have to let someone in, someday. And I'm here. Now." Peter paused. "I know I'm not... not that great with all the... you know... feelings and... whatever, BUT," he held up a hand to cut off Caffrey, who was tilting his head back and opening his mouth to protest, "But I can listen." He stopped again before continuing, "I've seen a lot of terrible things. Heard a lot of awful stories. I'm tough, Neal. Whatever you have, it's not gonna break me. Or push me away."

Peter let a small creep onto his face. "I caught you before. Twice." He held up two fingers. "So I can sure as hell catch you now, if you need it."

Neal returned his own tired version of the smile. "You're really proud of that wordplay, aren't you?"

"A little," Burke admitted. He leaned forward. "You understand me, don't you?"

"Not always." The sly Caffrey wit returned. "But yes, I think I do." He nodded his head toward the sofa behind Peter and said, "Should I be on the couch for this, doctor?"

Peter's grin widened. "Nah! We'll do this the manly way: with beer. Well," he amended, "Beer for me. Some sissy umbrella drink for you."

Neal leaned back and stretched. "If you prefer," he agreed. "Or we could try some cognac Mozzie got me."

Burke raised his eyebrows. "Oooh, that does sound better. Wait. Mozzie BOUGHT something?"

Caffrey shrugged. "To make up for drinking so much of my wine." Peter continued the questioning stare. Neal rolled his eyes. "Okay, I don't actually know that he paid money for it. But that doesn't mean he stole it, either. Necessarily."

"Did it ever occur to you it would be easier to go straight if you didn't surround yourself with criminals?"

"Hey, you're the one who has me chasing after law-breakers day after day," Neal replied as he rose to retrieve the bottle and two glasses more appropriate for their aperitif. "Besides, since when is Mozzie a criminal?"

Peter cleared the table and put the spent dishes on the kitchenette's counter. "Your little friend may never have been caught, but that doesn't mean he's squeaky clean, either."

"Use every man after his desert and who should 'scape whipping?" Neal quoted.

"Hamlet. Really?"

"It's a classic." Neal's careful outward smile remained, but he was chiding himself. He really should read that Inferno translation Mozzie kept going on about. At least he could distress himself with different material.

"I better not be Polonius in your mental analogy."

"If we start assigning roles, this conversation is going to get complicated very quickly."

Peter's mind flashed through a series of possibilities. Caffrey must fancy himself the eponymous hero, which would make Mozzie a balding Horatio, Kate the doomed Ophelia, and who would be enlisted as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? "Let's not. I don't recall that play turning out well for anybody."

"Fortinbras did all right," Neal pointed out, gracefully transferring the amber fluid from bottle to glass.

"Yeah, and the grave diggers probably got some great overtime, but somehow I still don't like the direction this goes." Burke watched Neal settle into the chair opposite the couch to sip his drink and perch his feet on an ottoman. His jacket was off now, but he still wore the vest and his tie was perfectly crisp. He was as composed and staged as a portrait.

Peter sat on the sofa and reached for the tulip glass on the low table before him. He sniffed the beverage, appreciating the delicate scent before tasting. It was Neal's turn to watch now, and consider his options. He was off balance. Both of them seemed to be, their tempers flaring and fading too quickly to be quite natural. Lack of sleep must be a large part of it, though not its entirety. Caffrey thought perhaps he could use that to push and pull their exchange so Burke got what he thought he needed and Neal got to keep his pain to himself, where it belonged. At least for a while longer. Peter might consider that a con, but every relationship involves manipulation on one level or another. A good con was just a relationship which one party carefully planned and controlled without making the effort too apparent. A form of romance, really. And Neal could do romance.

"Why now, Peter?" Neal made the first move. "I know you've wanted to know about my past for a long time, so why are you asking me now?"

"I told you. I'm worried."

"I can do the job."

"I know."

That hadn't been the reply Neal expected, and Peter continued before Caffrey could readjust his strategy. "When we were in that... that basement, Neal...," Peter stopped and frowned, leaning forward and hoping he could translate what was in his head into something his partner would understand. "You had some kind of connection with her. With Abigail. Not...," he cut off Neal's protest before it could begin, "Not with her as an individual. But with her... situation. Her circumstances. It's been clear since we first got this case... since you found this case for us, that you have some kind of..." Peter swallowed. "Some kind of intimate understanding of what she was going through."

Burke put his glass down. Neal was very quiet now, and a little paler than usual. He knew what was coming. Peter hoped if he was direct enough, Caffrey wouldn't be able to deflect the question. He hoped that somewhere in Caffrey, something wanted to talk about this, and to talk about it with Peter.

"Neal, please tell me. Before prison, before I started chasing you. I need to know. Did someone hurt you like that? Did someone... did someone hold you against your will?"

An icy chill spread from Neal's heart and froze him into an exquisite sculpture of dread. He was trapped. Even his breath had nowhere to go as his chest ceased its steady rise and fall. There was no way out of this question. Peter had been very clever. He had caught him again.

Their eyes were locked onto each other and neither spoke a word.

With a sudden shaky inhalation, Neal began once again to draw breath. He was deathly pale now. There was desperation in his eyes that took Peter back to a time when he was holding the young man for dear life to keep him from flying to the burning wreckage of Kate's plane.

"Peter. Please. Please. Don't ask me this. I can't do this." His eyes were so wide, so blue, and so pained.

But Peter wasn't letting go. Not now. Not ever.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Neal," he said softly. "If you don't want to tell me about it now, that's fine. I get it. It's okay." Burke paused. "I only need one word. Just one. Please. Just tell me. Yes or no. Before we met. Were you held against your will? Just yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Neal could feel the word begin to form on his lips, but he couldn't find the will to push it out, to give it life. Instead he raised his glass to them and downed the remainder of his cognac in a single swallow. It nearly choked him and he was suddenly dizzy. The alcohol burned down his throat into his gut, and the fumes of the strong liquor consumed too quickly rushed through his head.

And Peter was still looking at him. Still waiting. No exit.

Neal couldn't tear himself from Peter's gaze. He had lied before. Lied to Peter's face without flinching. Almost without guilt. So why was this happening? Why were his ears hearing his trembling lips release that single damning word?

"Yes."

...


	12. Chapter 12

Peter wanted to collapse. The effort it had taken to get Neal to this point was overwhelming him. And the answer itself... he realized now that he had been terrified either way. "Yes" would verify something horrifying and unfair. "No" would mean the young con was still trying to play his game, still not trusting anyone around him. Still trapped in a world of dangerous deceit.

But Jesus Christ, the look in Neal's eyes as he'd pressed him to answer. Like Caffrey thought... what? Peter buried his face in his hands, allowing himself just a few precious seconds to absorb the unexpected flood of emotion that swept over him. He had thought there would be sadness, but the shame and fury he felt instead were thoroughly unanticipated. How could he do this to Neal? How could he make him relive whatever terrible ordeal he'd survived? And the anger toward whoever had been responsible... it burned white hot, blinding him with its intensity and leaving the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes.

He looked through his fingers up at Neal Caffrey, master thief/forger/fraudster who sat bloodless across from him, wound so tight he was shaking. It was time for Burke to cowboy up.

"Neal."

The young man's eyes darted up to meet Peter's before flicking instantly away again.

"Neal, buddy." Peter began to reach out to place a comforting hand on Neal's knee, but instantly thought better of it, leaving the hand dangling awkwardly between them before it dropped back onto Peter's leg.

"Neal, look at me. C'mon."

Caffrey finally complied.

"Neal, do you want to tell me about it?" His blue eyes closed. Peter tried again. "Neal?" And he opened them once more, examined the agent's emotion-reddened face, and looked away, shaking his head.

Peter nodded. "Okay." He waited before asking the next question. "Have you ever talked to anyone about it?"

Caffrey looked at him again, face blank and eyes empty. And shook his head.

"Not even...?" Peter couldn't bring himself to say the names. Mozzie. Kate. Anyone.

This time Neal managed to rasp out, "No." He drew in a shuddering breath and shifted uncomfortably, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.

Burke knew what the answer to this next one was, but he had to try anyway. "We have professionals at the FBI. People who've dealt with... things like this. No one has to know why you're seeing them."

Neal barked out a laugh that made Peter sit back in shock. "Oh, Peter! Now you're threatening ME with mental health?" His grin was a little too hysterical, his over-shined eyes a little too wide, but the amusement was genuine.

Peter smiled nervously. This was good, right? A joke, a reference to earlier office banter—wasn't this a little bit of a return to normal?

"Yeah, okay, point taken," the older man grumbled. "But the offer still stands, if you want it."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. Really." Caffrey was regaining his color. He seemed more relaxed. More composed. Peter hoped it was real. He was thrown just a little more when Neal offered up the tiniest of openings. "I'll be fine. I hadn't even thought about it in years."

Burke took advantage of the opportunity. "How long has it been?" Neal was more than capable of sidestepping this if he wanted to.

Neal paused, thinking. "Fifteen years or so, I think. A little more."

Oh, Jesus, that would make him—what?—a teenager? Or younger? Christ. "God, Neal... how old were you?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Fifteen. Sixteen."

"Which one? Fifteen or sixteen?"

A shiver ran through Neal's frame, and his eyes hardened for a split second. "Both."

Peter had to look away, pulling his lips into thin white lines. He rocked back and forth a few times, shaking his head. He shouldn't keep asking about this. Neither of them could take much more.

"Your parents? Where were they?"

Another pause. "Dead."

Not the whole truth. Burke could hear it. But close enough. _Peter, no one's looking for her_. And no one had been looking for him, either.

"School?"

Neal shrugged again. "We moved around a lot."

"Why?"

Another unexpected reaction. Neal looked... embarrassed. He was blushing and had that shifty look Peter could never quite pin down. When Caffrey responded it was with a grimace as though he was admitting something deeply shameful. "Bill collectors."

Peter knew he was gaping, and he knew he looked like an idiot, but he just couldn't help it. "Bill collectors?" He repeated.

Caffrey's voice was angry now, and his eyes had a fire in them that Peter was actually a little glad to see. "Mom worked hard. She was honest. And the amount of work she did—it DIDN'T equal certain things in the real world."

Burke heard the accusation directed at him in the statement. It took a moment to place the reason behind the tone, but Neal was still talking.

"It wasn't her fault. She got sick. There were hospital bills. She tried to pay them all off. It wasn't enough. She gave them everything and then put the rest on credit cards." Neal snorted out a grim laugh. "Between the bill collectors and the debt collectors, we had nothing. I didn't understand it all while it was happening at first. I didn't know why there was no power, why we had to hide when someone came to the door, why the phone kept ringing and ringing and then we had no phone at all, why we came home one day and the keys didn't work."

"Locked out."

"Yeah. They had locked us out."

"Your mom, she didn't try to work with the hospital, the credit companies, the collectors? There are supposed to be..."

"Yeah, I know there are 'supposed to be' a lot of things," Neal interrupted. "And I don't know why none of those 'supposed to's ever happened. I was, like, preschool age when it all started. I just knew we started moving around a lot, staying with anyone who would let us or in cheap motels. And Mom couldn't get a good job after that because she had to get paid under the table or they'd find us again, garnish her wages, report us to social services."

"Wait, what? Why would they report her to social services for not paying debts?" This wasn't adding up.

Neal's lips curled into a twisted parody of a smile, unpleasant and full of teeth. An echo of the expressions he had seen on the men who preyed on the desperation of the poor and friendless. "They told her that if she couldn't afford to pay her bills, she obviously couldn't afford to keep her child."

"And she bought that? It's illegal!"

"Yeah. It is. And yet somehow I still ended up spending a weekend in 'protective custody' at a processing center. Until my mother paid the guy off. Somehow. " Neal let his face fall flat again and shook his head. "C'mon, Peter. You know your system doesn't always work the way it's supposed to. You've seen it. So we stayed out of the system."

"How?" Peter demanded. It was hard to believe. Go that far underground because of debt? Evade the detection of every law enforcement, social service, and welfare agency in every place they lived? "What about schools? There'd have to be records kept through them. No one ever thought there was something funny going on there?"

"Mom was smart. We stayed in big cities. Large schools." Caffrey softened at the next memory he encountered. "Great libraries. Amazing museums." He refocused on Peter. "Anyway, school didn't exactly... hold my interest for very long anyway."

"So... what? You just pulled an Artful Dodger and started to pick a pocket or two?" Burke was incredulous.

"What? No! Jeez, Peter, I can be honest, you know. I'm not a congenital reprobate."

"No, just a congenial one," Peter retorted.

"Oh, congratulations, you know your vocabulary better than a 90's political hack."

"Well, that's not hard."

And after a tense silence, for reasons neither could define, but both silently attributed to a combination of inebriation and exhaustion, they started laughing.

"It's not funny!" Burke forced out through what he cringed to think might be termed a giggle.

"I know!" Neal replied breathlessly. Then he started to laugh louder as he wheezed out, "That's why I'm not laughing!"

Which set Peter off again just as he had been about to bring himself back under control. They were bowed over and red-faced, trying to catch their breath.

"And he had a column!" blurted Neal.

"I... I know! 'On Language!'" They doubled over in hilarity.

"Oh, oh, but do you remember what Hilary said?" Caffrey steadied himself long enough to do an impression of seriousness, a dramatic hand to his breast. "'I'm not offended myself, but for my mother's sake.'" He dissolved back into giddy giggles.

Peter nodded. "The whole thing," he gasped, "Was so stupid!"

"I know! And it went on for weeks!"

Slowly, they brought their breathing closer to normal as they wiped the tears from their eyes.

"Oh,man," Peter grinned, drawing himself erect with a sigh. "I needed that."

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "You did."

"Smart aleck."

"Thank you."

Burke squinted a dirty look at Neal and retrieved his glass for another sip of cognac. "Okay," he conceded, attempting to leave the silliness behind for a time, "So we've established you weren't BORN stealing."

"Of course not. I didn't pick a single pocket until I was at least ten." A finger to his lips, Neal made a show of considering his facts. "Yeah, at least ten."

"Jesus, Neal, how...," Peter was still smiling, but he shook his head. Again. He felt like he'd been doing a lot of that today. "Who would teach a kid how to do something like that?"

And another shrug from Neal when he said, as it if it was the most natural thing in the world, "One of my mother's boyfriends. Kind of a scumbag, now that you mention it." Caffrey wrinkled his nose. "He smoked."

"Oh, well, if he smoked, that explains everything."

"Sarcasm is the language of the devil, Peter."

"Who said I was being sarcastic, Mr. Carlyle?

"Oooh, nice catch. I wouldn't have taken you for a fan of Victorian satirists."

"What can I say, Neal? I live to astonish you." Peter put his glass back down. "And drink your cognac. Wow. That is good stuff."

"It should be," Neal commented. "It's a Comet Vintage."

"Really?" Burke raised his brows. Pre-phylloxera?" Neal nodded. "I've confiscated some of those, but I've never tasted one."

"Well, it's good to know you can appreciate these things."

"Oh, I can't. And how did you do it? How did you even find out about... about Sy Devore and French grape harvests and Goya-esque riffs and ... and Thomas Carlyle, for Christ's sake? That's not usually included in the 'school of hard knocks' curriculum."

"I told you. Libraries. Museums."

"So you dropped out of school to go to the library?"

"So you don't believe me?" Neal sounded so sincere. Peter knitted his brows in consternation. "That's why it worked." Caffrey smiled.

"What's that supposed to mean? Why what worked?" Burke was beginning to feel too slow for this conversation.

"If you do it right—keep your days consistent, give the staff just enough charm and the right cover story—then a kid spending all day in the library and, when you're a little older, the museum, seems like the most natural thing in the world." He scratched his chin. "And you meet the most amazing people, sometimes. People who love knowledge and beauty. Who are passionate about subjects and authors and painters and sculptors. They'll tell you stories and give you reading lists and show you how to do things you could never get in a normal school."

"Like pick locks?" Peter suggested.

Neal frowned at him. "Don't turn this into something tawdry. And I couldn't pick locks until I was much older." His fingers found their way to his wrists and brushed against them absent-mindedly. "Not well, anyway." Not well enough. If he'd just been less honest earlier in his life, honed his criminal skills just a little more... He shook himself out of the reverie before it could pull him in too deep. But he could see Peter already making mental notes, filing everything away for later reference.

And suddenly it was all once again too much. It reminded the young man of being observed, prodded, tested, and used. _That is what it is to be vanquished and imprisoned: you let things happen._ He bit back the sudden chaotic amalgam of terror and rage that balled itself in the pit of his stomach. A dreaded helplessness welled up in him and took him back to every time he had been forced to wait, watch, and suffer.

Neal wanted to stand, move, pace about the room, smash his glass against a wall for the sheer satisfaction of hearing it shatter. He wanted to do something—anything—to wrench control back into his own hands and assert his independence to the world... to himself. But he carefully moderated his voice and said, "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm through."

A klaxon sounded in Burke's mind. "Through? What does that mean?"

"It means," Neal asserted, removing his feet from the ottoman to place them flat on the floor and lean toward Peter for emphasis, "That this conversation is over. It's been a very long day. Set of days. I'll call a cab for you. You probably shouldn't be driving." He leaned back in his chair with an air of finality. "See you at work tomorrow. Tell Elizabeth I said 'Hi.'"

Peter opened his mouth, ready to demand an explanation, but the look on Neal's face shut it for him. This wasn't the time to let wounded pride get in the way. He needed some rest, anyway. They both did. And El was waiting for him by now. He had more questions, needed more answers, but he'd already gotten more than he was sure he even wanted. And the nerves of both men were frayed beyond belief.

So all he said as he got up was, "I will, Neal. She'll be glad to hear it." Peter walked slowly to the door, the weight of the past twenty-four hours bearing down on him heavier than ever. He paused in the frame to look at Caffrey, still leaning back in the cushioned chair, and tell him, "Get some rest, Buddy."

Burke stepped somberly to the staircase, and all he heard as he descended were his feet on the wood beneath him and the muffled sound of breaking glass behind Neal's door.

...


	13. Chapter 13

"Neal!"

Caffrey looked up from his desk to see Peter with one hand on the rail outside his upstairs office and the other beckoning the young man to join him. Neal minimized the file on his screen and walked the well-worn path with unstudied elegance.

"No single or double finger-point, so this can't be too urgent," he smiled, lounging in the frame of Peter's office door.

"Come in," Burke said brusquely. "Shut the door."

Neal's good humour evaporated and he followed the agent's instructions.

"What's going on, Peter?"

"Sit down."

Neal sat. "I'm pretty sure I haven't done anything more wrong than usual lately," he said suspiciously.

Peter put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands. "There's a... problem. With Abigail."

Neal stiffened and sat up a little straighter. "What's wrong?"

"She regained consciousness Monday."

When Burke didn't elaborate, Neal responded, "I know. Yesterday. They took her off the sedatives. What's the problem?"

"Apparently there are some... some difficulties getting her to cooperate."

"What, with the FBI? Can't they wait? Question her later?"

"With anyone." Peter clarified. He hesitated. "The hospital had to use restraints."

Everything casual about Neal's demeanor disappeared instantly at those words. He was livid. "What!"

Peter could see heads turn beyond the glass walls, but couldn't fault his partner's reaction. His own had been only slightly more tempered.

"I know," Burke said darkly. "But," he motioned to the rest of the White Collar offices, "Inside voice, okay?"

Caffrey glanced back and waved merrily at an agent stopped outside, who continued on his way as Neal returned to Peter with a troubled frown. "Why would they do that? Don't they know her history?"

"She pulled out her IVs and all that monitoring stuff they have. They said she was 'resisting' the staff. They put her back under. They're going to try again today."

Neal nodded. "You didn't just call me in here for an update, though."

"No," Peter affirmed. "We'd like you to be there when she wakes up. You seemed to... connect with her. Since there's no one from her... her previous life to be there for her, we thought you could give it a shot. Keep her calm. Just let her know she's safe now. Let the hospital people do their job."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Holbert asked around about you. Apparently Agent Rice put in a good word."

"But you didn't mention anything about..."

"Oh, God no," Peter assured. "Neal, I would never—"

"Yes. You would," Caffrey interrupted. "If it had an impact on a case, you know you would."

"Neal, I haven't even told El! And I'm not going to." He scratched at his lower lip with his thumb. "Look, I know what you're saying. And to an extent, you're right. If your... experiences could help us or hurt us or might put someone in jeopardy, I would have to take that into account. But that doesn't mean I would betray your trust. I would not do that. Are we clear?"

"Yes." Neal hid his unease away. It wasn't like he had any control over the information anymore, anyway. Once you give a person your story, it's no longer really yours. "So," he said, "What do I do?"

...

Neal sat beside the hospital bed, watching the woman into whose hand he'd tucked his own. He thought about the advice and instructions he'd been given. He thought about what he would have wanted someone to say or do when he'd woken up that first time, not yet understanding he was free.

She stirred, grasping his hand a little tighter, her mind beginning to pull out of its haze. She was on her side, prevented from rolling over onto the worst of the injuries by bolster pillows, and he could see one eye as it began to flicker slowly open. Her breathing had already begun to change, and Neal could see her body tense as the pain returned.

"Abigail?" he called softly. In the footage he'd seen, the man hadn't used her name, so Caffrey hoped using it now would be a change, a signal that her circumstances were different. "Abby, are you there?"

His voice drifted through her mind and touched on a memory, the voices and commotion of the past commingling with the hum and beep of machinery in the present, and through both wove that quiet steady voice leading her gently through the fear to safety.

Neal could see her relax as he spoke, easing his own uncertainties. He wanted to reach out and brush aside the lock of hair that fell over her eyes, but he remembered the terror an unexpected touch had induced for so long after his own emancipation and waited for that dark brown orb to find its way to his patient blue eyes.

It seemed to take a moment for her to focus, and when their eyes met every muscle in her body tightened at once, and his heart broke a little to see fear racing through her like lightning. Neal leaned in and kept his voice low and calm. "Abigail. You're okay now. You're safe. They can't reach you here. There are people here, right outside the door, to protect you. I'm here. You're safe, Abigail. Safe."

He kept talking, slowly and clearly, looking at her intently as her expression shifted from anxiety to confusion to recognition. Her breathing slowed and she held on to his gaze and his voice like a lifeline. A small smile crept onto Neal's face. "There you go. It's better now. It's going to be so much better." He squeezed her hand. "You're in a hospital now. In New York." Her brow furrowed in confusion. "My name is Neal." He paused. "But you can call me Neal."

It was a stupid joke, but Caffrey's spirits leapt when he saw a ghost of a smile flicker over her face. "I'm going to help you." Neal glanced up, checking that they were alone and the door was closed, before returning his attention to Abigail. "I... What you went through? It happened to me, too. I can help. Okay?"

He realized he was trembling. The woman tightened her grip on his hand. She looked worried. The thought ran through his mind that perhaps he was going too fast. Perhaps he shouldn't have reminded her of her ordeal so soon.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her hoarse voice hardly louder than a whisper.

Shocked, Neal choked out something between a laugh and a sob. "You're the one in the hospital bed," he reminded her. "But yeah, I'm okay. And you will be, too." Doubt clouded her expression, but she remained silent.

"I know," he said. "It's hard to believe now. And... I'm not saying it ever goes away. But it gets better." It felt like a lie. He knew it was true, but saying these things right now, right here, to a woman whose skin hadn't even closed over her wounds yet, seemed like a betrayal of everything he knew she was feeling.

So he stopped. He rolled his chair closer to her and very slowly brought his free hand up to where she could see it. He began to move it toward her face, watching her the whole time, asking permission with his eyes. He paused when she stiffened as he brought his hand down to her forehead, but she calmed herself and allowed Neal to gently brush the hair out of her eyes.

He stroked her hair and said the words he had wanted to hear, "You're not alone. I'm your friend. I'm here for you. You can trust me."

She drew her knees up, curling around his hand where it still held her own, and grasped his arm in both of hers as though it were an old familiar teddy bear. Abigail was shaking, and turned her face from him to bury her head in the pillow as far as the unyielding filling would allow. She breathed deeply, in and out, as though forcing herself to move the air through her lungs in an orderly fashion, and he could almost feel her pulling her emotions safe inside to lock away from prying eyes.

Neal transferred his weight to his feet so he could lean over her and whisper, "Scoot over" without having to move his hands from where they lay. She obliged, face still hidden, and Neal sat on the hospital bed next to her, still combing one hand through her dark hair. They stayed like that for several long minutes until Abigail's breath evened out to something closer to normal and the tremors subsided.

"Hey," he said, his voice still hushed, "I brought you something." Neal leaned over her again. "Come on. Sit up, and I'll show you." He expertly added a hint of a whine to his next word: "Please?"

She shuddered in a deep breath and gathered her strength. "I'll help you," Neal offered, placing his available hand under her arm to help leverage her into a partially upright position. Without thinking, he drew her in to his chest, much as he had on the night they'd first met, and leaned her against himself without actually holding her.

Neal rested his chin on her head for a moment and remembered. How he would have given anything for a friendly touch that didn't want anything from him; didn't want to coerce or wound, force or manipulate. He remembered how his rescuers had looked at him with pity and disgust. They had been gruffly kind, yes. But until later, until he'd regained the strength to prove his value to them, he had known that they viewed the wretched state they had found him in with a degree of contempt. A condition earned by being too weak to prevent a man from gaining power over him.

Caffrey sighed and pulled away from Abigail enough to look down at her and smile. "If you give me my hand back, I'll trade you for it." She released his arm but didn't look up. Neal reached over to the styrofoam cup on the bedside tray and held it in front of her.

"For you, madame." He kept the smile in his voice, but his heart beat a little faster. He was relieved when she carefully took it from him. But she sat, looking down, doing nothing. Neal kicked off his shoes and brought his stocking feet onto the bed to sit cross-legged. He pulled the cup from her hands and popped the lid open to display the contents.

"It's a shake," he announced, pressing the lid back on and replacing the cup into the space between her palms from which he'd taken it.

Finally, Abigail looked up at him, uncertainty playing across her features. "You're supposed to drink it," he added helpfully. She raised her eyebrows at him and tilted her head, as though attempting to gauge the extent of his idiocy, and Neal couldn't have concealed his grin if he'd wanted to.

"Hey," he declared, "if I have to do all the talking, they can't all be witty bon-mots."

She smiled. It was small and hesitant, but it stayed in place.

He leaned his head toward hers and whispered, conspiratorially, "I'm supposed to get you to drink that. But I wouldn't, if I were you." She looked up at him again, suspicious. He narrowed his eyes and said, "Hospital food," shaking his head.

Neal unfolded his legs so he could reach down to the floor and produce a paper bag. Resettling on the bed, he ceremoniously revealed the waxed paper cup inside and presented it to Abigail with a flourish. "This is much, much better. The best vanilla milkshake in Manhattan. I promise." He held it out to her. "Another trade?"

He exchanged the drinks with a graceful swap and set the styrofoam cup back on the tray. Abigail was watching him with curiosity. Neal smiled. This was good. She was engaged in the moment, her attention directed at him and his antics. Soon she'd be consuming those calories the doctors wanted to get into her. If he stayed with her, he was sure she would let them remove the temporary bandages and apply the longer-term cellular wound dressings.

It was more than that, though. As Abigail took her first tentative sip of the shake, Neal felt himself beginning to connect, not just with the wounded woman next to him, but with a part of his own wounded past. Only now, that prospect didn't terrify him. As much.

...


	14. Chapter 14

"How'd it go with Sleeping Beauty?" Peter asked as Neal entered the conference room the FBI had borrowed at the hospital.

"Sleeping, oddly enough," Neal replied. "Agent Holbert," he acknowledged.

"Mister Caffrey," Frank returned. "Lovely gift basket, by the way. Don't think I've ever gotten one just for loaning out a flashlight."

Peter knitted his brow in concern, "You sent a gift basket?"

"Oh, yes," Holbert answered on Neal's behalf. "With a thank-you note and everything. Like we'd invited him to a housewarming instead of allowing him to observe a bust." He turned amused eyes to Peter. "Oddly enough, we had a minor breach in security around the same time we received our present. Someone managed to make copies of all our files related to the Abigail Harvey case. Can't imagine what happened."

Burke closed his eyes with a pained expression and shook his head just once before looking up. "Jesus, Neal," he said, resigned.

"Relax," Frank waved it away. "I gotta admit, the kid done good that night. You better watch this one, Burke, he's pretty slick." He raised an eyebrow, "If he were one of my boys—or girls, these days—instead of, well, a felon, I'd be pretty impressed."

"If I knew what you were talking about, I'm sure I'd be flattered," Neal smiled.

"Don't encourage him," Peter warned, shooting Caffrey a dirty look.

"No," Frank agreed, "I can see he doesn't need it. Next time you want information, though, fellas, there's a nifty invention called the telephone. Been around for a few years, you might have heard of it."

"What can I say?" Neal spread his hands, "Some people are old-fashioned."

Holbert snorted. "Don't push it, kid. Still," he lowered a significant gaze at Caffrey, "For as long as we're on the same side, I'm not a file hog. I take help where I can get it." He smirked at the other agent. "Seems we're of a mind when it comes to that one, eh, Petey? Though you're a bridge farther than I'd go."

Frank swiveled his chair back to his files on the table. Peter glared at Neal with thorough disapproval as the young man mouthed, "Sorry" at him with a shrug over Holbert's head and claimed a seat.

"So if you two are done with your pantomime show, maybe we can get started," Frank commented without looking up from his papers. "Caffrey, you get anything from our victim yet?"

Neal sat at polite attention. "No. Abigail's not ready. She said maybe three words the entire time. And she's tired and still scared. I got her to finish a milkshake and then she fell asleep again. I'll probably head back down when we're done with this briefing." He didn't want her to wake up alone. Not here, not yet.

Frank nodded. "That's probably for the best right now, anyway. She'll need a lot of high-calorie, high protein foods and rest while her body heals. And movement. To avoid contractures."

"You see a lot of these kind of injuries?" Peter wondered.

"Not a lot, thank God, but I've seen a few." Holbert replied, looking up at Peter from the notes he'd been writing. "The things some of these bastards do to their victims... Sometimes makes me wish I worked something a little more... civilized." He sighed. "And this case is weirder than most. Not the garden-variety marital squabble or nut-job or sexual trafficking. From one angle it looks like a freaky James Bond villain plot, from another it looks like amateur hour from a bad horror film."

Neal and Peter exchanged a look.

Burke cleared his throat. "Does this mean you agree with the conclusions I put in my report?"

"Yeah. Doesn't get us any closer to a perp, though, does it? The forensics hasn't helped yet, either. Only one set of unidentified fingerprints on anything in... in that room. No hits on facial recognition for the guy in the video. We've even been tracking down the equipment to see if we can get anything from where it was bought, but no luck on that, either." Frank shook his head. "Whoever this is, they covered their tracks pretty damned well. So far."

"You think they'll slip up?" Peter asked.

"No," Neal interjected before Holbert could answer. "We'll catch someone. They'll want us to, so it'll wrap the case up and we'll stop looking. But whoever we get, it won't lead anywhere." Neal leaned forward, his voice serious and a little fearful. "Peter, I don't think she's the only one."

Frank and Peter were the ones exchanging a look now.

Neal returned to his original attentive but relaxed pose and observed, "But you'd already considered that." He threw a glance at Peter, whose only response was a slight twitch to his eyes that Neal could read volumes in.

"We have to consider that as a possibility. I have my people cross-referencing other cases, looking for torture victims who had been presumed—or declared—dead until they turned up again. It's slow going." Frank sucked in his lower lip thoughtfully. "How soon d'you think Ms. Harvey will be able to assist us in the investigation?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not an expert."

"Hmph. With all due respect, Mr. Caffrey, that's bullshit." Frank held a hand up to forestall the other two men's objections. "I'm not trying to insult you here, but I don't want you wasting time, either. You conned people for a very nice living for quite a while and you were pretty damn good at it. You don't operate at that level without having a hell of a lot more insight into people than most of these 'experts' I talk to."

Holbert leveled Neal with a no-nonsense gaze. "Don't jerk me around. Give me your best analysis and let me decide what to do with it."

Neal raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, then." He picked a bit of nonexistent lint off the sleeve of his turtleneck to give himself a moment to arrange his words. "She'll talk to me. It will take some time, but she will. How long is going to depend on several factors, many of which are beyond my control."

"Such as?" Holbert prompted.

Peter folded his hands on the table and watched the scene with interest. Frank was much more effective dealing with Caffrey than any of the other agents—not counting Peter, of course—who'd worked with him. And it was instructive to watch them interact. Neal was playing his cards carefully, evaluating Holbert's response to every physical and verbal maneuver and letting just enough of some indefinable energy leak out to lend his performance unassailable credibility.

And Burke could see that Holbert understood full well that he was playing a game of wits with a master. Frank was turning every one of Neal's phrases over in his mind to test for veracity and usefulness, but he also wasn't fooling himself about his ability to detect all of Neal's motives. Peter wondered if this was how his own relationship with Caffrey looked to other people.

"Well," Neal continued, "It would help if I could get her out of that hospital room, preferably outside, even if just for a little while. The room she's in doesn't even have a window. Once she becomes more alert, she'll probably also become more paranoid. She might think she's still... in captivity. Just a different kind."

"Yeah," Frank said, "I've seen that happen. Like a flashback. The victim feels trapped; starts to panic."

"The good news is, she seems to trust me. More than I'd have predicted. If we can maintain that it'll really help. It would mean having to spend a lot of time with her, until she begins to establish additional relationships." Neal looked at Peter as he said this, and Peter nodded.

"I think we can solve a few crimes without the great Neal Caffrey to hold our hands for a little while. If Agent Holbert requests your assistance, the White Collar Division will be glad to make our resources available, including use of our consultant. I have to check with Hughes first, of course, but it shouldn't be a problem."

Frank made another note and said, "Good, so I'll get that request in the pipeline. Tell me, though, Caffrey, what is it about you that she's responding to, d'you think?"

Neal displayed one of his more dazzling smiles, with a hint of sadness thrown into the edges to add poignancy. "You did make the point that I have great insight into people. And if I couldn't get people to trust me I would not have made that very nice living you mentioned."

Frank pursed his lips and tapped his pen, caught somewhere between impressed at the smoothness of the lie and offended by its presence. "Fine," he said. He could let this go. If there were a potential problem, Burke would've seen it and taken care of it by now. Everything about the two of them demonstrated the effectiveness of their partnership. Caffrey was still a con man and a thief, but Burke was obviously keeping him on the right side of the law with something more powerful than the threat of prison. "Anything else you need?"

"Some... discretionary funds would be helpful."

Holbert shot a startled frown at Peter. "Is he serious?"

Peter reclined in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "What is it you want, Neal?"

"Oh, just a few pretty things to brighten up her room. Some REAL food instead of the hospital swill." Neal deliberately dimmed his smile and said meaningfully, "These things are important, Peter."

Holbert watched Burke doubtfully. Peter rubbed his chin with a thumb and thought about it before deciding, "I can probably get you a per diem for food, but you'll have to come up with your 'pretty things'—LEGALLY—on your own."

"And field trips," the thief pressed.

"Neal...," Peter warned, "Don't."

"What?" His wide blue eyes were all innocence.

Peter tipped his head and brought a finger up to poke in Caffrey's direction. "Don't use this girl as an opportunity to slip your leash just so you can go sight-seeing."

"I assure you, Peter, I am only thinking of our victim's well-being. A few visits to the great landmarks and—if she's interested—museums of our fine city are simply part of the rehabilitation process."

Burke shook his head and was about to dispel any illusions Caffrey had about gallivanting about town with their victim/witness. Then he stopped and took a long, penetrating look at his partner. Neal's voice was flavored with mischief, but his eyes and body were completely serious in a way Peter knew was intended to send the agent a very specific message.

So Peter scratched his head, sighed, and told Neal, "IF the doctors think it's a good idea, THEN we'll consider allowing you to escort Abigail to locations outside your two-mile radius. If you're accompanied by an agent." Neal added a pathetic brow raise to his expression, and Peter closed his eyes briefly before adding, "Or other non-felonious adult. That I approve. In advance."

Neal had the manners and grace not to advertise his triumph with anything more than a smile that would have shamed the Cheshire cat.

Frank began tapping his pen again. Caffrey had a hold on Burke, as well. It was like watching some strange paternal/partner hybrid. But this dance they were doing would be a helluva lot more fascinating if there weren't also a kidnapping torturer on the loose.

"Back to the case, then?" Frank asked. Peter seemed a little embarrassed but Caffrey took it all in stride as they returned their attention to Holbert. "We're probably looking for someone with medical training."

"They could be self-taught," Peter pointed out, trying not to be too obvious about not looking at Neal as he said this.

"Yes," Holbert acknowledged. "But it would have to be a hell of a self-education. Keeping the temperature high enough to compensate for heat loss from compromised skin. Delivering the correct nutrition and fluids to prevent malnutrition, dehydration, and shock. Preventing infection and illness under unsanitary, warm, and moist conditions. Not to mention the injuries themselves. Inflicted for maximum pain with minimum permanent damage."

"Preserve the body, destroy the mind?" Peter suggested.

Neal felt a tight fear grip him, but he pushed it down and was satisfied with himself for not betraying it with anything more than a fraction of a second of unnatural stillness. Yet to his own ears, his voice seemed a little thicker than normal when he said, "Or they don't want to damage the merchandise."

Holbert rubbed an eyebrow. "There isn't any evidence of sexual trauma, but that's not conclusive. They held her for a long time. And this could all have been preparatory. I just don't see it, though. Doesn't fit." He put his hand back down on the table and tapped his index finger a few times against the wood. "Not that anything here really fits. I don't know how far we're gonna get by speculating on motive, anyway. Just stick to what evidence we have until there's enough to start guessing at the big picture. Like a jigsaw."

Frank began to gather up his papers. "Well, Mr. Caffrey, Agent Burke... It was good meeting with you. I expect reports on any information you manage to obtain from Ms. Harvey and I will send along any new information my team gathers." He shuffled the files into his briefcase. "We'll co-operate the hell out of this case." He shook hands with Peter. "Until we meet again." Frank stopped before Caffrey, hesitated, then shook his hand as well. He paused in the door to say, "'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,'" with absolute seriousness before leaving the two men alone in the conference room.

"Peter?"

"Yes, Neal?" Peter answered warily. He could hear the playful tone of the young man's voice and already guessed what was coming.

"Which of us do you suppose he takes for a corrupt French official?"

...


	15. Chapter 15

Neal lay on the unoccupied bed next to Abigail's, reading files and waiting. He tried to concentrate on the mortgage frauds, securities scams, health care fraud, and other crimes represented in the folders before him, but his mind kept returning to the inconsistencies of the Harvey case. The only scenarios he could come up with that made any kind of sense were so implausible as to be ludicrous. And even the wildest stories he concocted could not account for what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to involve the FBI in her rescue.

He looked over at the woman in question only to find her observing him with clear brown eyes.

"Hi," Neal said, sitting up. "How long have you been awake?"

She made a half-hearted attempt at a shrug, wincing at the pain the slight movement brought.

Neal didn't know what to say now. Though it seemed to be happening more frequently now, it was still an unusual sensation for him to be at a loss for words, and Abigail just kept watching him without a sound. It felt as though a million thoughts raced through his mind at once, and he said softly to himself, "And time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions."

"Before the taking of a toast and tea," Abigail completed in a whisper. Neal's breath caught in his throat as she continued. "In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time to wonder, 'Do I dare?' and 'Do I dare?' Time to turn back and descend the stair, with a bald spot in the middle of my hair—(they will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')"

She closed her eyes, focusing on memory, lost in the poem. "My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—(they will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!') Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

She stopped speaking then, and opened her eyes, but Neal could almost hear Abigail's mind reciting the verses, tasting the bittersweet words, being lulled by the hypnotic pulse of Eliot's singular rhythms. He got up, quietly crossing the two steps to her bedside to look down at her. She stiffened in alarm. Neal sat on her bed, not breaking eye contact, and smiled.

"For I have known them all already, known them all:-Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons," he said.

She joined him and they spoke together, "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?"

Neal took Abigail's hand in his own, and his eyes were moist but his voice was controlled. "When I was... when I went through what you did, I used to... to try to remember... anything. Poems, quotes, stories. I'd repaint pictures from memory in my mind. You too?"

She nodded, and after a moment of hesitation added, "Songs." Abigail cleared her throat. "Music, poems, books. Movies. Science. Math formulae."

"Math formulae?" Neal repeated with a laugh. She blushed a little and averted her eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just... refreshing to speak to someone who knows the correct plural form of formula."

She turned her eyes back to him with a sly smile. "But it's elementary."

Neal's face broke into a full grin. "We're going to have fun," he predicted. "I can bring you some books and music while you... convalesce. When you're well enough, I can take you to the museums and galleries. I can tell you're going to love it. Have you ever been to New York before?"

Abigail shook her head. His enthusiasm was infectious. "And my parents?" she asked with a smile. Maybe it was true. Maybe this terrible nightmare was truly over. "Do they know where I am? Are they coming?"

Caffrey's smile froze in place, his joy suddenly gone. She didn't know. No one had told her. Of course no one had told her. She saw his reaction and was immediately apprehensive.

"What?" she breathed. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Acting on instinct, Neal toed his shoes off and lay down next to Abigail, his head on the pillow next to hers. He pulled both of her hands into his own and held them tightly. He caught her eyes with his own and his heart faltered to see the fear in them. She knew what was coming. She wanted to be wrong, but he knew she had already guessed.

"There was a car accident," Neal began. Before he had even finished the sentence, tears had begun to run down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his breaking voice matching his heart. "I'm so sorry."

She looked lost. Untethered. She shook with suppressed emotion.

"Let it out," he urged. "It's okay. Just... just let it out." He felt her eyes on his as though they were an accusation and Neal felt the hypocrisy of his own words. She knew nothing of him, so it must be his own mind, his own conscience that tormented him with all the tears he'd never shed for his own mother. The excuses were ready to hand, but rang as hollow as he had felt on that cold spring morning, holding her lifeless hand, unable to take his eyes from her feet in mismatched socks peeking out from under the covers of her blanket.

Deep shame flooded him. He wanted to weep. He wanted to cry out and scream and bawl like a child. He closed his eyes and felt the trickle of escaped tears make their way across his skin. But when he opened them, neither he nor Abigail were crying any longer. It horrified him. Neither could let themselves slip, for fear they would fall and break and never be made whole. It was wrong. On so many levels, it was wrong.

The lay silently side-by-side facing each other, their hands clasped together in the space between them. He could see when her grief turned to despair and the despair became tinged with anger. Icy dread shot from his chest and froze him when he saw the moment the despair and anger turned their claws inward and tore at her with vicious self-destruction.

It shook him to his core. He remembered when he had himself embraced death—welcomed it, even. Wished fervently to be released from his torment and been willing to allow it to happen. Been willing to help it along. But this was something different. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to forcibly remove her from her own mind to put an end to the pain that radiated from her and penetrated his own grief, guilt, and self-recrimination, replacing it with a deep and primal fear.

"Don't," he whispered, his eyes wide, his hands still clutching hers, bringing them up to his chest. "Don't. Please." He wanted to be more articulate but the words were caught in his throat.

Her eyes were cold and fierce, her voice low and venomous. "What...," she forced the words out, at the edge of her control, "What did they think happened? To me? When I was... gone?"

She knew. He knew that she knew. She was not a fool, Neal could see that. She had figured it out, already, so why, why, why? But he knew why, and it made him sick. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. He refused. She persisted. "Tell me," she said. He wouldn't. He wouldn't be part of this, wouldn't be used as just another instrument of torture. There was a dangerous glint in her eyes as they bore into his and she ground out, "Say it."

"You were... you were reported dead." He silently pleaded with her to let it be enough. Don't do it, don't ask that next question.

"How?"

Neal's anger flared briefly, resentment that she was asking him to do this flashed through him and he answered her. "Suicide."

With terrifying rapidity, she imploded, wrenching with all her might against Neal's grasp. He held on, frightened at the thought of what she might do, driving her back into the bed to control her thrashing. She screamed that hoarse guttural cry he had heard before and Neal found himself almost yelling, his face inches from hers, "Stop it! Stop! Abigail! Abigail, listen to me! Please! Just stop!"

She was already beginning to fade, her physical strength sapped by her time in captivity, her momentum blunted by the despair that consumed her, when the door flew open and the officer that had been stationed outside the room entered, gun drawn.

"Step away from the bed!" the officer ordered. "Sir, put your hands where I can see them and step back. Now."

Neal turned his head long enough to yell, "Get out!" before placing his forehead on Abigail's and quietly pleading with her, "Abigail, please, listen to me. Please. Don't do this. Don't give up. Just listen."

"Sir, if you don't step away right now I will shoot you." Security guards and nurses had gathered just outside the door, drawn by the commotion. "Sir! Now!" Neal continued talking softly as Abigail stopped fighting him and began to go limp, tears spilling from her closed eyes. There was a jostling in the crowd as a figure pushed his way through and Peter appeared in the entryway.

"What the hell's going on here?" he called. As soon as he saw the situation he paused only long enough to draw his FBI identification from his pocket and move carefully between the gun and Neal as he displayed it. "I'm Agent Peter Burke with the FBI. This man is a consultant with our office. So put that gun away before someone gets hurt." The officer looked from Neal to Peter to Peter's badge and hesitated. Peter stole a glance at the man's nameplate. "Officer Vance, look at my ID. Okay? Now holster your weapon."

Vance reluctantly lowered his firearm, looking between Neal and Peter, and put it away without removing his glare from them. "Good," Burke said, relaxing. He turned to see what Caffrey was doing to create such a scene. Neal had eased off Abigail and allowed her to curl up, cradling her in his arms as she sobbed.

"Neal?" Peter tried to get the young man's attention, but Caffrey hardly even looked up.

"Not now, Peter. Just give us a moment."

"Neal..."

"Peter. Everyone outside. Door closed. Five minutes." He paused before adding, "Do you trust me?"

Burke rubbed his own neck with one hand and turned away. Damn it, but Caffrey always knew what to say. He snuck one more look at his partner, sighed, and began to usher everyone out of the room.

As soon as the door was shut, Peter found himself faced with a knot of agitated hospital personnel demanding answers he didn't have. He tried to calm them and piece together a narrative of events. If he believed what he heard, then Neal had attempted to assault their patient, Abigail had suffered some kind of seizure, or a demented combination of the two. Peter just wished Neal would hurry the hell up and help him straighten out this mess before they were both banned from the hospital.

Finally, the door opened and Neal slid out looking neat, fresh, and utterly respectable.

"Who is the primary physician in charge of this patient's medical care?" Caffrey asked.

"I am. Doctor Abed Sayid."

Neal turned to face Sayid. "I work with the FBI under the name Neal Caffrey—I use my middle name and my mother's maiden name for the protection of myself and my patients—but you'll find I have degrees from Columbia and Johns Hopkins under the name Dr. Zach Lazenby."

Peter had to work to keep his jaw from dropping, and it didn't look like Doctor Sayid was buying the story either, but Neal continued with authority. "As per my instructions from the FBI, I've been speaking with your patient, Abigail Harvey, about her experiences and, quite understandably, she became very upset. Are you aware of her history?"

"I would have to look at her chart, but she has clearly suffered some kind of abuse," Abed replied.

Before the doctor could continue, Neal began speaking again. "Mmm, no, I thought not. Well, she attempted suicide and was placed in a mental hospital, from which she was abducted. She was held prisoner for almost two years—we believe it was about one year and ten months, actually—during which time she was tortured continuously. She has also just discovered that while she was captive, her only close family were tragically killed."

"Yes, but what—"

"So as I'm sure you can imagine, she is quite distraught." Caffrey kept right on talking. "I've managed to calm her quite a bit, but considering her circumstances combined with her history I recommend regular supervision. To prevent an incident."

"An incident?" Doctor Sayid repeated, incredulous.

"Yes," Neal replied. "I'm concerned she may attempt to harm herself. Not immediately, you understand, but it is a possibility in the near future. I will return after liaising with my FBI contact here and closely monitor her progress myself. I've had great success working with difficult cases in the past and I see no reason not to be cautiously optimistic here."

"That's true," Peter chimed in. "He's been very helpful."

"I don't have a card on me, but Agent Burke will give you his card and if you have any questions, feel free to contact me through the FBI office." Neal extended his hand and Dr. Sayid automatically reached out and shook it as Neal said, "I very much look forward to working with you, Dr. Sayid. I'm sure we have much to learn from each other."

With that, Caffrey turned and walked down the hall. Peter pressed his card into Abed's still outstretched hand and said, "We'll talk later. I have to discuss something with my consultant. Thank you." Burke turned and hurried to catch up with Neal. "What the hell was that?" he hissed. "Dr. Zach Lazenby? Jesus Christ, Neal!"

Neal kept walking and responded without looking at Peter. "I was going through a Bond film phase. Don't worry. I don't think I said anything that isn't technically true."

"Oh, really? Doctor? You never attended college. Unless you lied to me about that."

Neal smiled wearily. "I never said I attended Columbia or Johns Hopkins. Only that I have degrees from them. And I said I was never a student."

"Neal. We need to talk."

"I know. But not in the hall." He stopped in front of a door and produced a key. Peter fervently did not want to know where Neal had gotten it.

"Where are we going?" Peter asked.

Neal opened the door, flicked on the lights, and stepped into the room. "Our office," he said.

...


	16. Chapter 16

Neal walked to the far side of the room and immediately slumped onto the plush sofa, exhausted.

Peter closed the door and looked at Caffrey. It was disturbing. He seemed drawn, tired, and shaken. "Jesus, Neal, what the hell happened back there?"

"It's complicated."

"I bet."

Neal directed a glare up at Peter, who still stood above him, then relented with a sigh and bent over to rest his elbows on his knees and rub his face in his hands. Peter sat on the couch next to him, leaned his forearms on his thighs, and waited, large hands folded patiently at his knees.

After a while, Neal straightened himself, leaning back with his head away so Peter couldn't see him. He sniffed, then blew out a puff of air and faced Burke. Peter was a little surprised with his own reaction. Tears made him uncomfortable, and a man in tears was downright unnerving. But instead of wanting to back slowly toward the nearest exit, all Peter wanted to do was stay by his friend's side and... do something—anything—to help.

Not that Neal was actively crying. But it was clearly what he had been doing before allowing Peter this unobstructed view.

"I can do this," Neal said. "I know I can. I just didn't think it would be so... so..." He waved a hand in the air.

"Familiar?" Peter suggested.

Neal responded with a breathy laugh and tilted his head back to loll against the wall. "You have no idea." He swallowed and closed his eyes. The room was silent for a little while, the muffled echo of a page occasionally filtering through the walls. "I don't want her to die, Peter."

He wanted to reassure Neal that everything was going to be fine. They'd already rescued her. She was safe, right? But Peter felt somehow that this wasn't the time for him to talk. It was time to listen.

Caffrey drew in a deep breath and said, "She's about the same age, you know."

"I know," Peter said.

The young man shook his head. He opened his eyes and looked sideways at Peter, head still resting against the wall. "No." His voice was gentle, as though explaining something to a child. "The same age as my mother. When she died."

Peter's heart seized and his mind raced. He reeled from the completely different direction this was taking from what he had expected. Oh, God. Complicated didn't even begin to cover it. Jesus, Neal wasn't just reliving his captivity, wasn't just reminded of the torture he'd hinted at experiencing, but he was apparently—what was the word?—PROJECTING all those feelings surrounding the loss of his mother onto their victim. Was there a Goddamn kitchen sink to throw into this emotional mess?

He wanted to say or do something to fix this, to make it... better. But "How?" was all Peter could manage.

Neal turned his eyes forward again. "She was sick," he murmured. "That happened sometimes. She'd have trouble breathing. That time... I think it was pneumonia. But I don't know. She just... didn't wake up." His eyes were unfocused and sad and he closed them again for a moment. "I thought..." he swallowed again, moderating his voice to keep it even. "I thought that... that she must have wanted to go. That she wouldn't have... wouldn't have died if she wasn't ready."

"How old were you?"

The reply was so soft, Peter could barely hear it. "Fourteen."

Oh, God. Jesus fucking Christ. Burke couldn't help but picture Neal Caffrey as a lost, lonely, teenage kid adrift in a big city. Was he small for his age? Almost certainly mature beyond his years. He probably had that Caffrey confidence, even back then. He would have had to, or he never would have made it. He had probably been very, very pretty. And pretty adolescent boys living on the street... it made Peter shudder and look away.

"Where did you go?"

"Wherever I wanted. New York."

New York City. In the early '90s. Just as the police had begun to crack down, but while crime was still at its height. And Neal must have been caught right in the middle, between the police sweeps and the still-prevalent thugs, drug dealers, and sex traffickers.

Peter pivoted where he sat so one leg had to cross in front of him. He draped an arm on the back of the sofa and examined the con man. Neal was open and without artifice, much like he had been that second time Peter had caught him. But even this transparency was deceiving, like looking in the inviting, clear waters of a river that flowed pitilessly fast, ready to seize anything in its path and drag it under the calm surface. Waiting to hold you under until you stopped struggling.

"She has _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ memorized," Neal said.

"What?"

"Part of it, at least. We were reciting it together. Earlier."

Burke began to catch up. "The poem by T.S. Eliot?"

"Yeah. She went on autopilot. It was strange. Like watching myself."

Neal brought his knees up to his chin, his feet resting on the edge of the couch. He linked his hands in front of his ankles and turned his head to face Peter. It was an odd and contorted position that left Caffrey's knee digging into his cheek as his gaze alternated between Peter's curious, concerned, confused visage and the fake plant behind him.

"I think there are some things I have to tell you." Neal's voice was emotionless but not cold. "But I need something from you, first."

"Like what?" Burke began to calculate all the ways this could go wrong.

"I need you to stop being an FBI agent. Just for a little while." Neal's lips felt dry. He really didn't know what Peter's answer was going to be. This was a gamble. "Don't... don't pursue what I tell you. Don't investigate."

Peter hesitated. He wanted to agree, wanted to say whatever Neal needed to hear. But this was too important and too intimate to lie about and he didn't know if he would be able to hold himself back. Not without knowing beforehand exactly what it was he was agreeing to.

Caffrey read the reluctance like an open book. "This is my life, Peter. It's not a case." He watched his partner struggle with the question. Perhaps this was a mistake, after all. Neal turned his face forward again and examined the pull of the threads in the fabric over his kneecaps. If he kept stretching it out like this, the slacks would become unsalvageable. He put his feet back on the ground and ran his fingers over the drape of the pants, smoothing the material. And waited.

"What if I can't, Neal?" Peter finally spoke. "I don't know what you're going to tell me. I need you to trust me, but I can't promise something if I don't know... if I don't know what I'm getting into. I know that sounds really one-sided—it IS one-sided. But I'm responsible for you. And I've already... I've already blown it so many times by taking you at your word. Maybe you don't mean to lie to me. I'm pretty sure you don't mean to get me into trouble. But until you trust me enough to let me in, to let me help you without strings attached, without hidden agendas and secret back-up plans... I just can't be the only one to invest trust in this relationship. Because I keep getting burned." He grimaced. "I sound like I've been watching daytime talk shows, don't I?"

"A little," Neal smiled at Peter before staring down at his own shoes.

"Look," Burke said seriously, "I want you to tell me what's going on with you. And I think it would be good for you. But don't ask me to do something I can't deliver. Just trust me that I'm not going to do anything that's going to hurt you. I'm not out to get you, Neal. You don't have to keep running."

Neal ran a hand through his hair and sat back, resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin on his palm. He considered this. He wanted freedom. True freedom. And he understood now that it could only happen when he was willing to let go of some of his control and some of his safety. But something still bothered him.

"That's fair," Caffrey nodded slowly. "Tell you what—you tell me what you already know. Or think you know. I can fill in some of the rest."

Peter winced. He detected no bitterness in Caffrey's voice, but that didn't mean anything. He'd overplayed his hand and Neal had called him on it. Neither man was a paragon of openness, and they both knew it. Still, it was a start.

"From what I can gather, you were connected to organized crime in Baltimore in your late teens," Peter began. "I can't find any indication you were involved in their more violent activities, but I think you did some forgeries, maybe fraud and money laundering, possibly some heists."

"What makes you think that?" Neal asked.

"I found a portrait you painted of your old boss. You signed it."

Neal's eyes lit with a memory. "Whoever did that—they were naive. And grateful."

"For what?"

"I'm not admitting to knowing any of these people you say I was 'connected to,'" Neal clarified, "But I will say that the man who... who held me, was... disposed of by some people he double-crossed. And those people searched his house for some items they felt they were owed and came across me. They weren't supposed to leave witnesses, but they thought I might... be able to answer some questions they hadn't had the opportunity to ask."

"And did you?"

"I knew nothing. I was a toy, not a confidant." Neal shut his mouth suddenly. He didn't want to go there yet. If he got there at all, it would have to be more gradually than this, so the fear and anger that had already begun to rise didn't overwhelm him and rob him of control. "But there was someone in the... organization which employed my 'rescuers' who... well, I guess he took pity on me. I don't know. He never talked about it much."

Peter nodded. "Is that where you learned to use a gun?"

Neal laughed and shook his head, but it was a discordant sound. "No. That was a gift from an old boyfriend of Mom's. Former soldier. He used to take me out target shooting with his buddies. Taught me to strip and reassemble a whole arsenal of weapons. I thought it was fun. And he really liked me."

Peter frowned. "So what happened? They broke up? How come you didn't go to him after... you were on your own?"

"He...," Neal's jaw tensed and twitched. Burke could've sworn Caffrey's lower lip was quivering, but maybe that was the flickering of the florescent lighting. "He wasn't around anymore. By then."

"So he just took off, and you never..." Peter couldn't finish his sentence. Neal had hit him with a pained stare that took the older man's breath away as an appalling realization dawned. "You don't like guns," he said simply, as though it explained everything. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, shaking it slightly before drawing his hand over his face and looking away. "Jesus."

Peter focused back on Neal, who avoided his gaze. "He shot himself?" Caffrey nodded. "I'm so sorry, Neal." Burke opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. Because nothing he said would change anything. It seemed like the kid's life had been one disaster after another, filled with people who left him or used him. And Peter felt a little uneasy because, after all, wasn't he just one more user? Sure, he'd never openly called Neal a tool in his belt like Agent Rice had, but the thought had been there and the intent was the same. Wasn't it?

No. No, it was different with the two of them. Sure, Peter would never have helped Neal get the limited freedom he now enjoyed if the young convict hadn't had skills which allowed the New York White Collar Division to attain and maintain the significantly higher close rates than other offices achieved, but hadn't he also been moved by the prospect of guiding this prodigal son back into the folds of law-abiding society? A society which, Peter now realized, Neal had probably never really been a part of to begin with.

He thought he knew what El would say. She would tell her husband that he was a good man who had acted according to his best instincts. Unless she chided him that of course he had seized upon Neal's usefulness, but that didn't make him like all those other people because Peter was genuinely helping him and honestly cared about Neal's welfare. Neither of those was entirely satisfying, though. Peter wasn't a saint and he knew it. And if he had a weakness it was probably his at times over-zealous dedication to the ideals that had led him to join the FBI instead of take on a more lucrative profession.

But how much did any of that really matter now? At this moment, Neal was his friend and partner. He was in pain and needed comfort. Comfort might not be Peter's forte, but he would damn well make a go of it, however awkward it might feel. Because they hadn't even discussed the specifics of Neal's captivity yet, nor exactly what happened between his mother's death and his confinement. Which meant the story was bound to get a lot worse before it got better.

...


End file.
